“Love without sacrifice is like theft”
Isra wants to be surprised. She wants to look at the pegasus who speaks with stone and rust words and think that these are things that do not belong near the sea. Her eyes wants to sang on the smile child hiding, slack jawed and lost in the shadows and feel something other than acceptance. She does not want to think that this world will always be full of dark things, tidings and omens that each tell her that all the soft things are dead.
But her world is full of horror and blood. Her world lives on the chant of a war-drum song now, everything that rises and falls is stuck in the notes of that brassy beat.
There is something in her lips that tingles and promises that there is a smile hiding in the darkness of her features. She wants to look at him and say that the world is full of grave tidings and there is no place safe anymore. Instead she digs up what tenderness is left in her when his voice waivers into broken stones of desperation.
The words sorry, sorry, sorry die on her tongue when he looks him in the eye, guardian of a child to self-appointed guardian of the suffering. “I am Isra of Denocte.” The word queen falls out silently without sound. It's died that that place between the war-drum beats. Now it lives only in the point of her horn spiraling out from her brow in lieu of a crown and in the pearls blooming like flowers in the sand around her hooves.
Out in the surf, Fable is making his way back to shore. First his head is peaking above a wave that's crashing over his wings. He's watching the stallion and the child and his first thoughts are of curiosity humming low over that fresh rage that refuses to dissipate like a storm in the wind. The dragon is asking Isra if he should hurry back to the sand or if he can eat a few more fish.
She tells him to linger in the waves. There is nothing she cannot kill, not anymore.
“Tell me what your tidings are, Racthan, and if I can help you I will.” This she says with her eyes lingering on the small shadow of the child that is almost hidden behind a shield of wings. In her voice there isn't desperation but determination and that low beat of a drum always heard.
It beats on.
@Illu
But her world is full of horror and blood. Her world lives on the chant of a war-drum song now, everything that rises and falls is stuck in the notes of that brassy beat.
There is something in her lips that tingles and promises that there is a smile hiding in the darkness of her features. She wants to look at him and say that the world is full of grave tidings and there is no place safe anymore. Instead she digs up what tenderness is left in her when his voice waivers into broken stones of desperation.
The words sorry, sorry, sorry die on her tongue when he looks him in the eye, guardian of a child to self-appointed guardian of the suffering. “I am Isra of Denocte.” The word queen falls out silently without sound. It's died that that place between the war-drum beats. Now it lives only in the point of her horn spiraling out from her brow in lieu of a crown and in the pearls blooming like flowers in the sand around her hooves.
Out in the surf, Fable is making his way back to shore. First his head is peaking above a wave that's crashing over his wings. He's watching the stallion and the child and his first thoughts are of curiosity humming low over that fresh rage that refuses to dissipate like a storm in the wind. The dragon is asking Isra if he should hurry back to the sand or if he can eat a few more fish.
She tells him to linger in the waves. There is nothing she cannot kill, not anymore.
“Tell me what your tidings are, Racthan, and if I can help you I will.” This she says with her eyes lingering on the small shadow of the child that is almost hidden behind a shield of wings. In her voice there isn't desperation but determination and that low beat of a drum always heard.
It beats on.
