Never regret thy fall,
O Icarus of the fearless flight
For the greatest tragedy of them all
Is never to feel the burning light.
O Icarus of the fearless flight
For the greatest tragedy of them all
Is never to feel the burning light.
Volcanos are the workshops of the Gods, or so Ianthe has been told. The underground thunder and the trembling land is caused by hammers, the billowing smoke is simply from the forges. A masterpiece will be unveiled sometime in the future, perhaps not to mortal eyes, but unveiled nonetheless. No herd she has ever flown with has remained long enough to see the result, to see if the gods are feeling generous. Such a thing would only be rude, presumptuous, and no Swift would dare.
But here she stands, looking out across the waters, feeling ash settle amongst her feathers and watching Zeus’s lightning bolts intermixing with thick black smoke and fierce red. Those around her shift and sigh with nervous energy, afraid, but Ianthe is enchanted. She has been granted a chance, the potential, to see a god’s masterpiece, and though the loss of her wing still aches fiercely in the very core of her being she won’t turn away.
Despite being sworn to her purpose (a lost Queen and a General and a war), she does not think she will be begrudged this opportunity. Perhaps the timing is a boon for her, a balm, some sign of favour, and so she watches, and waits, and hopes she is not overstepping, not misreading.
The heretics cry and crowd and curse around her. They do not understand, and do not care to. She has no eyes for them, not for those who flee, not for those who stay.
Ianthe tilts her head to the blackened sky and smiles.
But here she stands, looking out across the waters, feeling ash settle amongst her feathers and watching Zeus’s lightning bolts intermixing with thick black smoke and fierce red. Those around her shift and sigh with nervous energy, afraid, but Ianthe is enchanted. She has been granted a chance, the potential, to see a god’s masterpiece, and though the loss of her wing still aches fiercely in the very core of her being she won’t turn away.
Despite being sworn to her purpose (a lost Queen and a General and a war), she does not think she will be begrudged this opportunity. Perhaps the timing is a boon for her, a balm, some sign of favour, and so she watches, and waits, and hopes she is not overstepping, not misreading.
The heretics cry and crowd and curse around her. They do not understand, and do not care to. She has no eyes for them, not for those who flee, not for those who stay.
Ianthe tilts her head to the blackened sky and smiles.
***STAFF EDIT
@ianthe has rolled a 5! She has been awarded +100 signos
