blessed be the one
whose lips spill the truth of gods
whose lips spill the truth of gods
He walks.
Walks the paths that even one with such an untrained eye as he can tell has been trodden by many others before him. Smooth marble and polished stone is what Drune knows best (but he also knows cracked stone, dirty floor, and blazing flames that dance across the cold walls of an underground crypt).
He knows more too, of course, but he has never experienced any of it.
The hands of Gods have shown him lush crops, ones that grow beyond expectations and flourish despite the parched land. They have shown him the raging sea, her tumultuous waves that crash against the bow of a wooden ship and decimate it into little pieces.
He has seen raging fire consume loved one and sacred land, the earth tremble and shake the very foundations of a precious home to pieces —
—destruction, consuming, but it cannot stop the hope.
A sneer tugs at one side of his lip, giving him an even more unflattering appearance. As the sneer appears the tresses of his molten tail crack like a whip, stinging his hocks as he glances over his shoulder with the only eye he possesses. There is no reason to do this; no fear or concern for something heinous appearing gathering inside of his mind. Something does tell him to search, though.
Search and look for what he has gleaned; find it and reveal what you have seen oh blessed Oracle of Sohorn.
His ears flatten.
Nothing was there (this the Oracle knew), nothing but the forest and whatever called her home.
A huff, irritated and glad to be rid of the brief vision bestowed upon him, left his nostrils as he flexed his neck. Ribbon grew taut against the muscle that thrived there as he did so. It is as much a grounding action as it is a gesture of unspoken displeasure.
Such small, inconvenient things and they have plagued the runaway for years. It had only been but a year or so after his birth that the first one came. He had been so overcome with the need to speak about what he had seen that he had been too blind to see what it would lead to.
What does it mean?
He found out soon enough.
The hidden call to search does not go unanswered, for while he doesn't dare to accept what he has been given there is nothing here for the Oracle. What he knows is gone. There are no statues that stand tall and proud, no quiet garden oasis that hides him from the predatory, pleading gaze of the denizens that spend hours hoping he will finally write on that blank parchment for them.
Hope.
The sky is blue, blue and bright — cerulean. The sun permeates the cerulean blind that crosses the path of its rays — swift, free, is this joy?
Joy; blooming, thriving, growing. There is rebirth after decay. There is hope.
Soon.
Jaw clenching, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. The words feel like old familiar friends, just out of reach but ready to greet him with open arms and celebratory cheers.
The metal of his hoof digs into the gentle earth below. The pressure he applies is unforgiving, printing into the soil a singular circle that rests deeper into the ground than any of the other prints he might leave behind. Just like that, he rejects those words that wish to try their luck at getting through the damaged ruins that his body has become. At times he wishes it was different, that he could speak his mind and be just a little different.
The Gods showed him long ago, though, what was to become of him.
Soon, the hands upon his brow whisper. Drune searches.
Aimless his search might have been, but he still comes to find what he knows he needed to (he didn't know, though, not really but with each piece he connects, the picture becomes a little more clear until he knows it cannot be a mere coincidence).
As he spies her, ivory and cerulean, the picture becomes a little more clear. Almost immediately Drune is sounding out his appearance: another quick lash of his tail that slices through the air like an unforgiving cane. Threatening it might sound but Drune knows otherwise.
His ears no longer lay flat and he continues to do more to portray what he verbally no longer can. All the while his eye flickers to the crystalline wings that remain at ease on either side of the silvery woman.
Long ago Drune learned that much is inevitable; not much can be fought unless one went above and beyond to avoid it, but even then that guaranteed nothing. However, when it came to endings Drune knew that how one got to the ending could change. This is where he liked to test the Gods; he liked to push the boundaries and see if he could make some things occur sooner than expected.
Soon. His head cocks to the side, almost humorously so in order to compensate for what he can't ask.
Why here? Why below? Why not up above?
Maybe they will understand. Maybe not. So is part of the curse of not being able to speak.
@Aelin
Ray has permission to powerplay Drune
for the remainder of this thread
Walks the paths that even one with such an untrained eye as he can tell has been trodden by many others before him. Smooth marble and polished stone is what Drune knows best (but he also knows cracked stone, dirty floor, and blazing flames that dance across the cold walls of an underground crypt).
He knows more too, of course, but he has never experienced any of it.
The hands of Gods have shown him lush crops, ones that grow beyond expectations and flourish despite the parched land. They have shown him the raging sea, her tumultuous waves that crash against the bow of a wooden ship and decimate it into little pieces.
He has seen raging fire consume loved one and sacred land, the earth tremble and shake the very foundations of a precious home to pieces —
—destruction, consuming, but it cannot stop the hope.
A sneer tugs at one side of his lip, giving him an even more unflattering appearance. As the sneer appears the tresses of his molten tail crack like a whip, stinging his hocks as he glances over his shoulder with the only eye he possesses. There is no reason to do this; no fear or concern for something heinous appearing gathering inside of his mind. Something does tell him to search, though.
Search and look for what he has gleaned; find it and reveal what you have seen oh blessed Oracle of Sohorn.
His ears flatten.
Nothing was there (this the Oracle knew), nothing but the forest and whatever called her home.
A huff, irritated and glad to be rid of the brief vision bestowed upon him, left his nostrils as he flexed his neck. Ribbon grew taut against the muscle that thrived there as he did so. It is as much a grounding action as it is a gesture of unspoken displeasure.
Such small, inconvenient things and they have plagued the runaway for years. It had only been but a year or so after his birth that the first one came. He had been so overcome with the need to speak about what he had seen that he had been too blind to see what it would lead to.
He found out soon enough.
The hidden call to search does not go unanswered, for while he doesn't dare to accept what he has been given there is nothing here for the Oracle. What he knows is gone. There are no statues that stand tall and proud, no quiet garden oasis that hides him from the predatory, pleading gaze of the denizens that spend hours hoping he will finally write on that blank parchment for them.
Hope.
The sky is blue, blue and bright — cerulean. The sun permeates the cerulean blind that crosses the path of its rays — swift, free, is this joy?
Joy; blooming, thriving, growing. There is rebirth after decay. There is hope.
Soon.
Jaw clenching, his tongue pressed against the roof of his mouth. The words feel like old familiar friends, just out of reach but ready to greet him with open arms and celebratory cheers.
The metal of his hoof digs into the gentle earth below. The pressure he applies is unforgiving, printing into the soil a singular circle that rests deeper into the ground than any of the other prints he might leave behind. Just like that, he rejects those words that wish to try their luck at getting through the damaged ruins that his body has become. At times he wishes it was different, that he could speak his mind and be just a little different.
The Gods showed him long ago, though, what was to become of him.
Soon, the hands upon his brow whisper. Drune searches.
Aimless his search might have been, but he still comes to find what he knows he needed to (he didn't know, though, not really but with each piece he connects, the picture becomes a little more clear until he knows it cannot be a mere coincidence).
As he spies her, ivory and cerulean, the picture becomes a little more clear. Almost immediately Drune is sounding out his appearance: another quick lash of his tail that slices through the air like an unforgiving cane. Threatening it might sound but Drune knows otherwise.
His ears no longer lay flat and he continues to do more to portray what he verbally no longer can. All the while his eye flickers to the crystalline wings that remain at ease on either side of the silvery woman.
Long ago Drune learned that much is inevitable; not much can be fought unless one went above and beyond to avoid it, but even then that guaranteed nothing. However, when it came to endings Drune knew that how one got to the ending could change. This is where he liked to test the Gods; he liked to push the boundaries and see if he could make some things occur sooner than expected.
Soon. His head cocks to the side, almost humorously so in order to compensate for what he can't ask.
Why here? Why below? Why not up above?
Maybe they will understand. Maybe not. So is part of the curse of not being able to speak.
Ray has permission to powerplay Drune
for the remainder of this thread
