If Finnian had been awake, he might have wondered at the number of people that gathered on the wind-swept shores that morning. He might have played with the thought that the fox had summoned them there to help him; a delightful notion, to be sure, but fanciful in the extreme, more akin to a boys slumbering fancies than a grown man's logical reasoning. While he was at it with the daydreams, he could even have mused that some god or other was watching over him, one that was less fickle and decidedly more benevolent than his patron of old. Uprooted he was, torn from everything he had ever known or loved, set afloat on an ocean of unknowns...
... and now look at him. Washed up on a rocky shoreline like some piece of driftwood, left to live or die as best he could.
For what it was worth though, said beach was neither godforsaken nor deserted, so he might actually survive the ordeal after all.
For the longest time neither rousing words or gentle prodding could stir the young stallion. His body might be moored but the mind remained adrift, lost on dark waters and set upon by dark dreams that he could never quite recall afterwards, save for a vague notion that he had been very sad. He did not stir when a wolf-skin cloak was draped over his wet, chilled body and could do nothing to defend himself against the greedy eyes that lingered a fraction too long upon his few earthly possessions. But something, whether it was the added warmth, the constant murmur of voices above and around him or merely the passage of time, did eventually give effect. As awareness slowly returned to the raven-haired man the rhythm of his breathing changed, grew more labored and more shallow, his chest heaving in a single deep breath that caught off halfway through and set off a nasty cough. Water spilled from his mouth, reeking of salt and brine and the inside of a stomach, the whole of his body laboring under the effort of expelling any remaining fluids.
Then Finnian cracked open his eyes and peered up through salt-crusted lashes at the many silhouettes that hovered over him, looming and ominous against the backdrop of the brightening sky. The clouds had begun to break apart; he could see a sliver of blue up there, pale and wan still but promising a beautiful end to the day so long as the winds would not bring more storms upon them...
He did not really care about the weather at the moment. More pressing matters came to mind; where he was, who they were, whether he would live or was as near death as he felt (surely it had to show how bruised and battered he was, as if he had been slammed repeatedly into every cliff and rock along the entirety of the coast.) But when he tried to speak, all that came across his tongue this time was more coughs, and a hoarse, salty croak that had nothing whatsoever to do with any language he had ever heard.
In every tyrant a tear for the vulnerable
In every lost soul the bones of a miracle
In every lost soul the bones of a miracle
@Damascus @Rannveig @
