metaphor
The mountains gave Metaphor room to breathe, room to quiet his wandering mind. He walked silently along the tree lined paths, cut by horses who strode here long before himself. Autumn breezes turned colder the higher that he climbed, and though the red stallion shivered some when the wind caressed him, its touch was not unwelcome. His dark eyes take in everything, drinking greedily like a child who could never see enough. Scents of autumn filled his senses – damp leaves, crisp mountain air, pungent cedars and firs. He was at peace here, despite the chaos in Novus. Metaphor was relaxing into his life here quite nicely, not sad to see the strange magic of the Rift go by the wayside. Here, life was simpler, in a way.
He hugged the mountain’s edge, looking over once or twice and wondering for the briefest of moments what it might feel like to fly. Metaphor was a simple creature though, as simple as they came. He had no wings, no horn, no magic. What he did have was a level head and a calming presence. With a whimsical sigh, he stopped for a moment in his journey, staring out on Novus and appreciating the beauty that the land had to give. Here in the mountains, he had a birds-eye view of the world, and a part of him never wanted to go back to reality.
Turning back, he almost began the descent back toward his and Katniss home on the edge of the woods… but something stark white against the greenery caught his eye. Looking closer, he could see it was some sort of structure, and curiosity has Metaphor pressing closer to learn more, even as Maaemo’s orb hummed a bit brighter behind him. Stepping carefully through the underbrush, he moved closer and closer to the temple, until at last the red stallion finds himself beneath one of its massive arches.
His hooves clatter against the stone, and Metaphor’s eyes turn this way and that, taking in as much as he could. It was a splendor to behold, a temple clashing with nature and civilization. Purple flowers climbed the walls that seemed to stretch forever to the heavens. It was a place which hummed with piety, speaking of some religion or god lost to time. Standing beneath the vine-heavy columns, he whispers reverently to whomever might be listening, “What is this place?”
