azrael
Azrael had never been one to read the cards. Sure, he’d been familiarized with it, but there was something which felt like a trick to him – as if the fortune teller could bend and twist the narrative to match his whim. Still too, he had no clear understanding of the auras or eggs, finding his peace much more in nature than in the supernatural. So though he is as much a shed-star as those who traveled in the caravan and set up their tents to lure in the curious, Azrael dodged the chaos of the festival and fortune seekers. Instead, the aurora hued stallion simply skirted along the edges, away from the bustling children with their brushes and vibrant paints, and away from the bonfires which licked at the night.
He wandered through the relative quiet of the meadow, just on the borders where it was fringed with trees. Just far enough away where he could see his stars. The stallion was close enough to hear the songs, even humming along for a moment to stave away the silence, but he otherwise seems an outsider in Delumine, lost to his thoughts and his wandering.
Along his side is a dreamcatcher staff, adorned with baubles which looked like stardust where they met the moonlight or bonfire’s spark. Another illusion, of course – but one which brought him bits of happiness as he gazed upon the weapon. He rubs at his neck absentmindedly, smiling as he touched its bare skin, remembering that his cherished obelisk rested now around the neck of a child he’d come to know as his – if not by blood, than by affection. For a moment, his mind wanders to her mother, bright as the sunlight with a hint of sadness and reflection in her bright blue eyes. But tonight was not about Elena. He shakes her from his psyche. Instead, the stallion breathes the spring air deeply into his lungs, willing away the memories and thoughts, focusing instead on the night.
The stars were different here in the northern sky, but he knew them all the same. The dragon, the lion, the swan. All stared down at him as he counted every shining light, whispering their names like a prayer to the silence around him. Still too though, the male is aware of his surroundings – aware of the stranger who happens upon him even as he turns and acknowledges her with a slight nod.
“Good evening.” His voice is a whisper, fringed only by the din of the celebration in the distance. “You too have strayed from the festival? Tell me… what brings you into the shadows tonight?”
@Euryale
