Pravda had read many histories. And that was what they had been called. Histories, kept immaculately in the library of his homeland. Some even detailed the end of a World, which always varied, and was never the same. Certainly, there were similarities: the coming of gods, meteors, lack of water, failing crops, disease, invaders. Many, many similarities. His mind was jumbled with the sheer number of them as he pondered the ending of this World, and whether he was so unlucky to partake on his second journey in a doomed land.
He came after the beating heart. He came after the silence.
He came when the novelty had worn away, and many were certain the end had not yet arrived.
And when Pravda journeyed across the cracked lava bridge, decorated with pearls and moonstones and iridescent oyster shell. He walked with his head held high, Marwari ears twisted into a perpetual curl. Even there, there was a sense of sophistication about him, in the immaculate braids of his mane and tail, in the vibrancy of his heterochromic eyes. By the time he reached the sands, he had reached a sort of internal peace at whatever curiosities he would find.
Pravda did not expect to reminded so profoundly of home. It was the pristine nature of the sand, he supposed, and the very delicate way it shifted beneath his weight as he trekked further up the beach. Perhaps it was the vibrancy of the birds, or the imploring stillness of the island itself, as though it had simply absorbed the beating hearts of the berries.
He lifted his head against the breezeless air, and decided to explore, to find the heart. Pravda wandered inland, toward the crystalline pool. The water shone, pure azure, and he caught his reflection trembling at its surface. He did not drink the water and instead turned away, catching more glimpses of brightly coloured birds—one like blood, another lustrous gold, and a third that landed near him with all the iridescence of nacre. It did not tweet or chirp, but screamed at him, a blood-curdling sound that Pravda flicked an ear at.
Interesting—further, further still, he went. And a metallic wildcat flashed between the boisterous emerald of the leaves, eyes like amethyst or… or something deeper, nebulous, and Pravda was lost momentarily. But the wildcat was gone, long moments before, and the trilling melody of the birds continued overhead. It was almost overwhelming… almost.
But he had once read a story about a Priest reborn in a world where glaciers were made of diamond and everyone lived in floating crystal ships… That was surely more fantastical than this. But as he stared at the bright colours and the pristine sand, he could not help but feel an inclination of distrust, of uncertainty.
After all, the most brightly coloured of snaked were the most dangerous. With that in mind, Pravda continued cautiously past the pool. But he did not have the self discipline to ignore the longing within his own heart. He was not so rude as to refuse the island's imploring call...
@Pravda "speaks"
STAFF EDIT***
@pravda has rolled a 5! She has been awarded +180 signos.
