i s o r a t h
a king in his own right,
a king without a kingdom.
Isorath had always been an early riser, and often the final ghost in the hallways that retired to his chambers. Sleep was a fickle thing, and he was partial to the moments of the day where he was the singular figure in silent hallways or the lone silhouette of silver and gold against the pastel colours of the sky. There was something oddly comforting in these moments, like he stepped between time itself. Into a place that was only him and that which he wished to be.
In times before, he had risen to train. Eyes ablaze and mind eager, he had been raised a warrior much as he'd been raised a prince. There was no time to let his body go soft and fat with laziness and contentment, and even when he'd left his home in search of greater glories. He'd found himself bodyguard to an Empress and trained twice as hard, but his heart had been on fire then with love and the desire to see her and their kingdom safe. Now, he rose because sleep was fitful and unpleasant, urged awake to find peace in the lingering tendrils of nights tender morning kiss to the light. The bird calls and the dim glow of the fireflies soothed his troubled mind to a place where his breath came easier and his ears abandoned their sanctuary within the depths of his silver mane. It had been a long time since he had trained so passionately, and while he had endeavored to maintain the tone he had built, he had lost much of the thickness he once required. He was now lithe instead of muscular bulk, built with curves and sharp angles.
Perhaps it would do him good, if not for his body, then his mind — to have someone to test himself against, to remind him of those old roots that still dug in deep beneath his skin. Push him past the threshold until sweat soaked his skin and his hair fell from it's ornate pieces, until his breath became labored and his mind sharpened into a fine point made to weild himself like a weapon. He had been that once, and some part of him longed to be like that again. His words had grown sharp in their stead, his weapon aimed to wilt those that tried to get a rise out of him. New found vanity which bid him to hold himself above such things that might damage his shimmering coat and shatter the antlers which crowned him, but wouldn't it be something to taste it again.
He had risen and slowly, sluggish with sleep pulled himself from the mess of blankets and the comfort of his leather wings. Most would of found it a chore, but he had with ease that could only be accomplished from too many nights and early mornings, left the confine of his quarters and silently moved through the quiet halls toward the entrance. Mind focused on pulling the long tresses of his mane into something more tameable than the shock of silver curls which almost caressed the stone floor, held in place by the ornate clips fashioned in the shape of dragons.
Slitted pupils spotted the unicorn out of the corner of his eye, and his attention is pulled away from sorting through his hair at the greeting. Part of him feels exposed like this, half-disheveled and not fit to be greeting anyone and he inwardly sighs. There's no time for gripes or a wish to retreat and reappear when he is immaculate as Vespera's visage captured in the artists careful brush stroke or carving hand. So he grins and bears it, his mane is left half done, not exactly done but not entirely loose. On further inspection, the stranger with the careless smile is just as disheveled as he is, the sweat on his dappled coat is still slick enough that he can see it in the pink light of the morning. Many rose early in the morning for many reasons, some out of routine and others like him, no one truly looks their best in the early hours, no matter how much they wished it. It's enough to sooth the sore spot for now about his own appearance. "It's hard to sleep late underneath all this hair." He responded with a barely audible laugh, a wry smile playing upon his pale features.
"Isorath talks."
This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.
a king in his own right,
a king without a kingdom.
Isorath had always been an early riser, and often the final ghost in the hallways that retired to his chambers. Sleep was a fickle thing, and he was partial to the moments of the day where he was the singular figure in silent hallways or the lone silhouette of silver and gold against the pastel colours of the sky. There was something oddly comforting in these moments, like he stepped between time itself. Into a place that was only him and that which he wished to be.
In times before, he had risen to train. Eyes ablaze and mind eager, he had been raised a warrior much as he'd been raised a prince. There was no time to let his body go soft and fat with laziness and contentment, and even when he'd left his home in search of greater glories. He'd found himself bodyguard to an Empress and trained twice as hard, but his heart had been on fire then with love and the desire to see her and their kingdom safe. Now, he rose because sleep was fitful and unpleasant, urged awake to find peace in the lingering tendrils of nights tender morning kiss to the light. The bird calls and the dim glow of the fireflies soothed his troubled mind to a place where his breath came easier and his ears abandoned their sanctuary within the depths of his silver mane. It had been a long time since he had trained so passionately, and while he had endeavored to maintain the tone he had built, he had lost much of the thickness he once required. He was now lithe instead of muscular bulk, built with curves and sharp angles.
Perhaps it would do him good, if not for his body, then his mind — to have someone to test himself against, to remind him of those old roots that still dug in deep beneath his skin. Push him past the threshold until sweat soaked his skin and his hair fell from it's ornate pieces, until his breath became labored and his mind sharpened into a fine point made to weild himself like a weapon. He had been that once, and some part of him longed to be like that again. His words had grown sharp in their stead, his weapon aimed to wilt those that tried to get a rise out of him. New found vanity which bid him to hold himself above such things that might damage his shimmering coat and shatter the antlers which crowned him, but wouldn't it be something to taste it again.
He had risen and slowly, sluggish with sleep pulled himself from the mess of blankets and the comfort of his leather wings. Most would of found it a chore, but he had with ease that could only be accomplished from too many nights and early mornings, left the confine of his quarters and silently moved through the quiet halls toward the entrance. Mind focused on pulling the long tresses of his mane into something more tameable than the shock of silver curls which almost caressed the stone floor, held in place by the ornate clips fashioned in the shape of dragons.
Slitted pupils spotted the unicorn out of the corner of his eye, and his attention is pulled away from sorting through his hair at the greeting. Part of him feels exposed like this, half-disheveled and not fit to be greeting anyone and he inwardly sighs. There's no time for gripes or a wish to retreat and reappear when he is immaculate as Vespera's visage captured in the artists careful brush stroke or carving hand. So he grins and bears it, his mane is left half done, not exactly done but not entirely loose. On further inspection, the stranger with the careless smile is just as disheveled as he is, the sweat on his dappled coat is still slick enough that he can see it in the pink light of the morning. Many rose early in the morning for many reasons, some out of routine and others like him, no one truly looks their best in the early hours, no matter how much they wished it. It's enough to sooth the sore spot for now about his own appearance. "It's hard to sleep late underneath all this hair." He responded with a barely audible laugh, a wry smile playing upon his pale features.
"Isorath talks."
This styling is also nice for some non-obtrusive OOC credits, wordcount or banter. Don't forget that divider up there.
@Morozko -- hello!
