the sound of cannons
breaking open the sky
breaking open the sky
That treacherous, wandering heart could not be put to rest. It still wanted; with jaws and teeth that were a little more gentle, it sought for any and all. Particularly now, when he knew just enough to satisfy that curiosity, but so very little that he couldn't rest without wondering.
Wondering about what was just a little further beyond the meadow, the river, creek, plains.
'And what are you doing out here old-timer?' His lip twitches in amusement over the memory of that conversation. That had been back in Nordlys, while he had been returning to Morthalion after getting away from its cobbled streets for a while. He hadn't been that old. Certainly had had a lot of life left in him.
He did now, but still, the reality of his situation was an even heavier cloak to carry than the one he currently did. No matter the blood, sweat, tears, that stained that red fabric of his, those memories and waves of guilt and sorrow could never overcome the looming certainty of all the tomorrows to come.
Perhaps, it was that impending reality that pushed through his uncertainty when he saw those first dunes beyond the plains. Or, perhaps, it was his love for such arid places — places that would always remind him of Dirtharest and the scorching land that constructed her. That darling, optimistic side of him (one that continued to live on despite his pain and grief) liked to believe it was the later.
Even then, if that was the case, he could not help how the sand made his throat tight.
(If he looked up long enough, searched long enough, would he find the silhouette of her? Of her wings, dipped in gold with minor flares of flames trailing behind her. Would he be able to let out a piercing hello in the form of a whistle and be able to hear her echoing roar in reply?
Would he scale the crest of a dune and find the small camp they had come to create together?
No. No, he would not.)
As if the grains of this place knew he longed for another, they wrapped around each step he took in consolation. For it was the closest thing to affection, comfort, they could give him. They did not dare to hinder his progress, but they made note of it. Each place he steps, the side his cloak hangs off, is marked by them beneath the sun.
He knows such places well enough to know that his path will not remain for long. A part of him worries over knowing that, for he does not know if he can handle remaining in such a place for long. Not after the months and months he sequestered himself away in another just like it. That worry does not affect him beyond making him glance over his shoulder and back from where he came from.
Glancing to the sky, he marks the cardinal direction — just to be sure.
~
He knows the illusions and games of such places as these; knows better than to believe it with only his eyes before actually being in the presence of whatever it might be he is looking at. This is not something he learned only from the desert, for he can remember the time he ran into his daughter and believed her to be the result of him possibly going senile.
It's a sour memory, one that causes a downcast expression to overcome his face as he glances down at where the fluid grains of the desert part. His treacherous, intrigued mind compels him to walk alongside this oddity.
Something is below. It's nothing that moves (if something does, he dismisses it, for this place is a traitorous one), just ground that is given a spotlight by the sun above.
He finds himself wondering. Just enough that he is driven further to look; to look until an ear involuntarily twitches at something breaking through the static air of this land. Then, a figure. One that breaks free from the place he does not know acted like a prison for her.
Avallac'h knows nothing, and it is why he does what one with such a heart like his would.
Concerned, his head is held high as he continues to look to the smaller figure. "Hello?" He calls out, accented voice carrying itself across the long meters that separate them. Not allowing his concern to make him rush over, Avallac'h continues to progress closer, worry weighing down his legs. "Are you okay? Do you require any help?" He didn't know the individual, but that had never mattered to a man like him.
He had given his cloak to keep one warm once, had laid it on the ground for another to rest on another time. He had laid down by another in a cold morning by the sea to offer what comfort her could, had approached the battered body of someone he didn't know another time to help.
He was going to try and help, as best he could.
Speech
@Hälla
Wondering about what was just a little further beyond the meadow, the river, creek, plains.
'And what are you doing out here old-timer?' His lip twitches in amusement over the memory of that conversation. That had been back in Nordlys, while he had been returning to Morthalion after getting away from its cobbled streets for a while. He hadn't been that old. Certainly had had a lot of life left in him.
He did now, but still, the reality of his situation was an even heavier cloak to carry than the one he currently did. No matter the blood, sweat, tears, that stained that red fabric of his, those memories and waves of guilt and sorrow could never overcome the looming certainty of all the tomorrows to come.
Perhaps, it was that impending reality that pushed through his uncertainty when he saw those first dunes beyond the plains. Or, perhaps, it was his love for such arid places — places that would always remind him of Dirtharest and the scorching land that constructed her. That darling, optimistic side of him (one that continued to live on despite his pain and grief) liked to believe it was the later.
Even then, if that was the case, he could not help how the sand made his throat tight.
(If he looked up long enough, searched long enough, would he find the silhouette of her? Of her wings, dipped in gold with minor flares of flames trailing behind her. Would he be able to let out a piercing hello in the form of a whistle and be able to hear her echoing roar in reply?
Would he scale the crest of a dune and find the small camp they had come to create together?
No. No, he would not.)
As if the grains of this place knew he longed for another, they wrapped around each step he took in consolation. For it was the closest thing to affection, comfort, they could give him. They did not dare to hinder his progress, but they made note of it. Each place he steps, the side his cloak hangs off, is marked by them beneath the sun.
He knows such places well enough to know that his path will not remain for long. A part of him worries over knowing that, for he does not know if he can handle remaining in such a place for long. Not after the months and months he sequestered himself away in another just like it. That worry does not affect him beyond making him glance over his shoulder and back from where he came from.
Glancing to the sky, he marks the cardinal direction — just to be sure.
He knows the illusions and games of such places as these; knows better than to believe it with only his eyes before actually being in the presence of whatever it might be he is looking at. This is not something he learned only from the desert, for he can remember the time he ran into his daughter and believed her to be the result of him possibly going senile.
It's a sour memory, one that causes a downcast expression to overcome his face as he glances down at where the fluid grains of the desert part. His treacherous, intrigued mind compels him to walk alongside this oddity.
Something is below. It's nothing that moves (if something does, he dismisses it, for this place is a traitorous one), just ground that is given a spotlight by the sun above.
He finds himself wondering. Just enough that he is driven further to look; to look until an ear involuntarily twitches at something breaking through the static air of this land. Then, a figure. One that breaks free from the place he does not know acted like a prison for her.
Avallac'h knows nothing, and it is why he does what one with such a heart like his would.
Concerned, his head is held high as he continues to look to the smaller figure. "Hello?" He calls out, accented voice carrying itself across the long meters that separate them. Not allowing his concern to make him rush over, Avallac'h continues to progress closer, worry weighing down his legs. "Are you okay? Do you require any help?" He didn't know the individual, but that had never mattered to a man like him.
He had given his cloak to keep one warm once, had laid it on the ground for another to rest on another time. He had laid down by another in a cold morning by the sea to offer what comfort her could, had approached the battered body of someone he didn't know another time to help.
He was going to try and help, as best he could.
@Hälla
