A R I O N
The absolute victory of sol invictus was upon them, a relentless march across the heavens, stealing from the court of dusk their shadows, the night a mere memory, beloved and desired to those unused to the heat. Arion had no quarrels with this fanciful torment, the breeze from the seas, the howling shrieks of her maidenhood a comfortable assault to combat against overheating. He was a stallion of the mountain tribes, and yet, long was his life in the deserts dune, the place of skeletal remains and parched earth. A drop of water worth more to a herd than any fountain of gold. The most precious of crafts, fine gilded regalia, jewels of fine ornaments, carvings and inked lore, all were created with tender care, and traded for the one most precious gift; water. Here, there was no such shortages, a place where the fertile earth blessed be those who walked her ancient halls. The oasis, beautiful in their hostile fragility was nothing to the wealth that dwelled in the swamps, the very air saturated with dampness, cooling his hide where he strode through the waters, his belly, legs and tangled tresses drenched. Whereas others may have found the height of Solis' reign unbearable, he found it a gentle comfort.
His heavy ebony hooves struck against the stone of the citadels halls, a wraith since his coming a near fortnight ago. A fledgling to their odd customs, the easy air a reprieve from the complexities of the Yaghl tribes, Arion had sequestered himself to the dank, damp passageways at the heart of the monolith, led down upon by spiraling stairs. How many secrets dwelt here, deep in shadow? What tales would it hold, of those who came before? It was a curiosity, as well as a retreat, escaping from the rising tenor of voices mixing and flurrying with vibrancy. The halls of the living, the halls of shared words and community. There were times it reminded him of the mountain cities, built deep and wide beneath the great peaks of the east, far from these lands he had come.
Even here, hidden away, shielded by earth and stone, the echoes lingered, a faint rise that would consume his attentions if he offered it a moments attention. The phantom reminds hissed against his skull, the great male tossing his head in irritation, even as he paced towards the hall, his chimera hide cast into a shine from the flames bracketed against the walls. The noise grew the further along he ventured towards the surface. Pausing, his ears rolling forward, sliding along the tattered remenants of his mane, the smith listened to the voices, the rising panic and discord. It would seem something was amiss. To the ascension he began, long, corded limbs making easy work of the wide stairs, until at last he emerged into a wreath of tangled olive. They were numerous, the equine of the Dusk court, murmuring in their gentled worry for strangers and kin alike. That was perhaps the oddest of paradox he had come to accept; this willingness to see good in all things. The willingness to move past grudge and grief. It was an oddly whimsical thing, so used to he was of the prejudice of the tribesmen. Silent, a mere observer in many feats to the Terrastellians, Arion caught the swift orders of the caretakers, a wounded cast from the sea, left to lay bareboned in salt and weeks. He was slow to act, careful, as he turned around, thoughts settling in a careful clarity. Would he even be welcome in crisis of the court, naive as he was to their true creed?
All the same, he wandered, following after the swift shadow of the lady, intent on her purpose. Following after, the venture from the gilded castle in the sky to the desicrate stretch of rock and dead things, Arion seen the gathered masses, an assembly huddled about a single fallen form. "Where did he come from?" a low rumble hummed within his throat, stepping forward, his long tusks lances of white in the dull ashen sand. It was almost tender, pulling the tangled weeds from around his pale neck.
His heavy ebony hooves struck against the stone of the citadels halls, a wraith since his coming a near fortnight ago. A fledgling to their odd customs, the easy air a reprieve from the complexities of the Yaghl tribes, Arion had sequestered himself to the dank, damp passageways at the heart of the monolith, led down upon by spiraling stairs. How many secrets dwelt here, deep in shadow? What tales would it hold, of those who came before? It was a curiosity, as well as a retreat, escaping from the rising tenor of voices mixing and flurrying with vibrancy. The halls of the living, the halls of shared words and community. There were times it reminded him of the mountain cities, built deep and wide beneath the great peaks of the east, far from these lands he had come.
Even here, hidden away, shielded by earth and stone, the echoes lingered, a faint rise that would consume his attentions if he offered it a moments attention. The phantom reminds hissed against his skull, the great male tossing his head in irritation, even as he paced towards the hall, his chimera hide cast into a shine from the flames bracketed against the walls. The noise grew the further along he ventured towards the surface. Pausing, his ears rolling forward, sliding along the tattered remenants of his mane, the smith listened to the voices, the rising panic and discord. It would seem something was amiss. To the ascension he began, long, corded limbs making easy work of the wide stairs, until at last he emerged into a wreath of tangled olive. They were numerous, the equine of the Dusk court, murmuring in their gentled worry for strangers and kin alike. That was perhaps the oddest of paradox he had come to accept; this willingness to see good in all things. The willingness to move past grudge and grief. It was an oddly whimsical thing, so used to he was of the prejudice of the tribesmen. Silent, a mere observer in many feats to the Terrastellians, Arion caught the swift orders of the caretakers, a wounded cast from the sea, left to lay bareboned in salt and weeks. He was slow to act, careful, as he turned around, thoughts settling in a careful clarity. Would he even be welcome in crisis of the court, naive as he was to their true creed?
All the same, he wandered, following after the swift shadow of the lady, intent on her purpose. Following after, the venture from the gilded castle in the sky to the desicrate stretch of rock and dead things, Arion seen the gathered masses, an assembly huddled about a single fallen form. "Where did he come from?" a low rumble hummed within his throat, stepping forward, his long tusks lances of white in the dull ashen sand. It was almost tender, pulling the tangled weeds from around his pale neck.
Laziest of Posts >.<
