and i wanted to change the world
Ipomoea has heard the rumors.
There are two things to be hunting on this island. Three, if you include a god.
It’s a wicked thought that crosses his mind, one the appaloosa is not used to. But times have changed, the world has changed, and oh, the boy that once sang of flowers and sunshine has had to change alongside it, like the waves eroding away a cliffside. Life had become a game of choices and gambles, of actions and consequences, of love and laughter and yes, even hatred. Ipomoea is not yet sure if he possesses the latter, at least not yet - but there is one thing he knows. Anger has become a wild thing inside of him, a beast that takes the place of the uncertainty and guilt he once knew.
And with that anger came determination.
The sea has long since torn free the braids from his crest, so his mane tumbles in long, disheveled strands down his neck. His flowers have wilted and fallen away, so his brow is barren and pale. Even his eyes have gained a steeliness to them that even his closest friends from Delumine may not recognize.
He stands on the beach, wings furling and unfurling, reaching out to skim the waves that rush past his hooves, looking out over the ocean. He thinks he can see the shore of Novus today, so bright and clear are the skies overhead. The water is a blue nearly as deep as the heavens, so that when they stretch endlessly out to the horizon they seem to melt into one another and become indistinguishable, like two lovers embracing.
Ipomoea closes his eyes, and breaths in deeply. One heartbeat; two heartbeats; three heartbeats fill the empty space. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. A drum beating slowly inside of his chest, a crescendo waiting to rise.
When he opens his eyes he turns away, letting the roar of the water drive him away. The sun is hot and heavy, burning his back as he crosses the beach, but he imagines that it is setting him aflame instead, a fire that turns him golden, that hardens him like steel in a forge.
Ipomoea has few weapons to fight with. He is no soldier, nor skilled battlemage. But even now flowers bloom in his hoofprints in the sand, and the sandpipers and beach crabs are like a cloak trailing behind him.
He thinks of home, and he sees trees burning. He thinks of denocte and he sees flames rising into the night sky. He thinks of the island, and he feels the heat of the volcanic ash stinging his cheeks.
And the anger continues to rise like an ocean inside him.
The island holds many mysterious and hidden things, he knows. And Ipomoea intends to find at least one of them.
@Ipomoea | "speaks" | notes: text
x