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There are clouds in the sky, low and grey. Ipomoea tries not to think of the way they seem like they’re watching him, waiting, the way their very presence promises that something bigger is coming. He tries to ignore the way the wind stretches itself like an icy knife across the meadows, flattening the dry grass beneath it. He tries not to listen when those golden stalks shiver and bend themselves to the ground, and whisper to him to take cover.A storm was brewing, that much he could tell.
And Ipomoea had a sinking suspicion that he would be caught out alone in this one.
By the time he reaches the small house nestled at the edge of Illuster, the first few snowflakes have already begun to fall. They cling to his mane, his back, his eyelashes, dusting him with a thin layer of white that makes the blanket pattern on his skin complete. His breath is visible when he laughs, the sound as soft as the wind whistling through a spring forest.
The warmth of her home is a welcomed reprieve after his long walk. Walls and countertops alike are decorated with a multitude of creeping vines and flowering houseplants, so numerous they seem to turn the air itself a thousand shades of green. Combined with the wooden foundation, it’s enough to make him question - if only for a moment - whether it was truly Emersyn’s house he had stepped into, or the Viride forest. Still, it suits her, and all her shades of grey.
He turns to see her stocking the fire, until a warm orange glow begins to fill the room. As always, just as Emersyn finishes one task she starts another.
It takes only one word for Ipomoea’s smile to fade, his brows creasing into a frown.
He comes closer to the table, glancing only briefly over the leather harness before doing a doubletake. But he doesn’t question it - as the Emissary continues to speak, the appaloosa files the crafted wings away in his mind, alongside a list of other things titled “to be Asked Later.”
The air itself feels charged when he meets her stare, as if the intensity in her eyes has leeched into her surroundings, turning it all alive. Ipomoea can see it in her eyes what she’s able to do, what she’s willing to do.
He shakes his head, and turns to look out the window. The forest stands as tall as ever, branches waving at him from afar with a false sense of peace. Ipomoea looks at them still when he begins to speak.
He doesn’t want to think of what if might mean if she’s right, of what he might have to do. The soldier-turned-Emissary had had a lifetime to accustom herself to doing what she had to, not matter the cost. Ipomoea had had only a few months. Some things would never sit quite right on his heart.
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let's get this thing started
