A R I O N
For a moment, he was consumed by the silence, the isolation and hesitant, gripping consumation of night and day. It was a moment such as this where the untamable beauty of both existed; the darkness and jewel studded clothe of Denoctes' veil layed as crumbled silk along the shore, casting a transparent spell upon the secrets that laid hidden beneath his watchful eye; and the blazing heart of Solis, bared from the furs of his bed, the gossamer glow on radiant skin. They rose, falling and spiralling as the gods wrestled upon this endless canvas, interrupted only by the zealous peacekeeper Oriens, his mauve persistance visible for but mere moments, pushing the jockeying entities away, never to quite touch in their violence. It was a beautiful thing, this torturous duty the glimpsing divine were, the children who were forced to act as go between for the ever fueding kin. His breath fell hot, frosted and shimmering against the last fading light of the kalediscope dawn. It was always in these moments where he was tempted to leave his seclusion, leave the halls he had sequestered in his aversion to the pitiful wars waged in the waking reality, that place where greed and infatuation of status held so much, the whispers of schemes and betrayal.
A last of a noble house they would say, one of the few that cared little for self-gain and self-indulgence. There was neither great love or hate for the way the world spun, only a solemn acceptance that very little would ever change. His story had been sung, his voice a fading baritone at the end of the rising dusk. Perhaps it was why he was drawn to the collision this court represented. The death of one, and the birth of another. Where day was the unrelenting victory and celebration of empowering spirit; where night was a haunting call of that which came before, dusk and dawn were in constant transition, fleeting in their beautifully short lives, appearing for but a moment, always constant in their awareness that they were there, yet, uncaring if they turned their eyes upon another. The observer in the crowd, a prince bearing the tattered cloth of a commoner. He wondered if they were humble. Cocking his head, the strong cords of his throat flexing beneath the weight of heavy bone, Arion allowed an amused expression to lighten the heavy thoughts that etched his eyes. That face which shared all to the world the variety in his life thus far, the struggles and trials, the passion of wisdom so few ever truly pursued. It was one that revealed the inner monsters, things many dared not, could not bear to glimpse. And those truths in himself were what weighed heavily, the weakness in his inability to act, his helplessness that came with the path that walked away from the power to fight and heal. He both made with his own power the power to kill and save, and yet, he himself was responsible for neither.
He was in no means a romantic at heart, yet, when he saw her the only thought that came to mind was she was unearthed splendor. The addiction many sought, the thirst for gilded gold, locked away in ashen stones deep. Brushing away the simplicity of what hid away her truest self, the marks were as coins, freshly sung from the forge, bright and reflective from their careful treatment of oil and cloth. Watching her from a glance, Arion was aware as the mare drew closer, a sudden spike in her scent that spoke of a terrible fear, a shocking realization of the world falling away to some forgotten dream. He wondered if he mistook him for someone else, unlikely as it was. In his travels he has seen none like him, the oddity in the cosmos of his marks, the ivory bone of daggers vaulting from his jaw. Yet, shadows whispered their devilish tune, as it always would. Perhaps she saw what she wanted to see, or what she wished never to see again. The silence persisted, an old friend he never tired from, knowing that should she wish to say something, she would. A member of the court, yet a spirit of the wilds, the fine etiquette in greetings long eluded him, finding neither importance in learning or acting as a pretender.
The sigh came soft, nearly missed when she finally made a sound, his ears flicking against the velvet of his neck. Arion turned, careful of his arcing tusks, his miss toned eyes seeking and finding her own, a molten gold that matched the marks on her hide, the jewels that clung like dew to her brow and cheek. A low strum of the cord fell from his lips, offering his greeting in turn, watching the way the rising vapour gold reflected off her marks, casting them even more bright in the dark. He had always admired beauty, a critical eye well practiced in measuring the value of a finished trinket. From over his back, a ghost though faded into his sights, a will-o-wisp of faint colors. A man of flesh and bone at last. The Arnorian snorted, his heavy crown tossed back, a twinge of mirth cracking his solemn thoughts. A faint memory rising. "Aye. You interrupted my thought. Yet then, it would have been the same outcome should I have been anywhere else." He turned his crown to her once again, a slow nod to her. "Greetings m'lady."
A last of a noble house they would say, one of the few that cared little for self-gain and self-indulgence. There was neither great love or hate for the way the world spun, only a solemn acceptance that very little would ever change. His story had been sung, his voice a fading baritone at the end of the rising dusk. Perhaps it was why he was drawn to the collision this court represented. The death of one, and the birth of another. Where day was the unrelenting victory and celebration of empowering spirit; where night was a haunting call of that which came before, dusk and dawn were in constant transition, fleeting in their beautifully short lives, appearing for but a moment, always constant in their awareness that they were there, yet, uncaring if they turned their eyes upon another. The observer in the crowd, a prince bearing the tattered cloth of a commoner. He wondered if they were humble. Cocking his head, the strong cords of his throat flexing beneath the weight of heavy bone, Arion allowed an amused expression to lighten the heavy thoughts that etched his eyes. That face which shared all to the world the variety in his life thus far, the struggles and trials, the passion of wisdom so few ever truly pursued. It was one that revealed the inner monsters, things many dared not, could not bear to glimpse. And those truths in himself were what weighed heavily, the weakness in his inability to act, his helplessness that came with the path that walked away from the power to fight and heal. He both made with his own power the power to kill and save, and yet, he himself was responsible for neither.
He was in no means a romantic at heart, yet, when he saw her the only thought that came to mind was she was unearthed splendor. The addiction many sought, the thirst for gilded gold, locked away in ashen stones deep. Brushing away the simplicity of what hid away her truest self, the marks were as coins, freshly sung from the forge, bright and reflective from their careful treatment of oil and cloth. Watching her from a glance, Arion was aware as the mare drew closer, a sudden spike in her scent that spoke of a terrible fear, a shocking realization of the world falling away to some forgotten dream. He wondered if he mistook him for someone else, unlikely as it was. In his travels he has seen none like him, the oddity in the cosmos of his marks, the ivory bone of daggers vaulting from his jaw. Yet, shadows whispered their devilish tune, as it always would. Perhaps she saw what she wanted to see, or what she wished never to see again. The silence persisted, an old friend he never tired from, knowing that should she wish to say something, she would. A member of the court, yet a spirit of the wilds, the fine etiquette in greetings long eluded him, finding neither importance in learning or acting as a pretender.
The sigh came soft, nearly missed when she finally made a sound, his ears flicking against the velvet of his neck. Arion turned, careful of his arcing tusks, his miss toned eyes seeking and finding her own, a molten gold that matched the marks on her hide, the jewels that clung like dew to her brow and cheek. A low strum of the cord fell from his lips, offering his greeting in turn, watching the way the rising vapour gold reflected off her marks, casting them even more bright in the dark. He had always admired beauty, a critical eye well practiced in measuring the value of a finished trinket. From over his back, a ghost though faded into his sights, a will-o-wisp of faint colors. A man of flesh and bone at last. The Arnorian snorted, his heavy crown tossed back, a twinge of mirth cracking his solemn thoughts. A faint memory rising. "Aye. You interrupted my thought. Yet then, it would have been the same outcome should I have been anywhere else." He turned his crown to her once again, a slow nod to her. "Greetings m'lady."
