Raglan
may the bridges i burn light the way
He didn’t know what he had been expecting.
A swamp was a swamp was a swamp, he supposed, and as the rich mud sucked at pale hooves, Raglan felt a bit of regret at deciding to explore this particular region of Terrastella. While the sun was still low enough in the sky to be considered morning, the mahogany stallion had been tromping about the shaded expanse of the Tinea Swamp since just after dawn. A thick fog still clung to the few shadowed reaches of the marsh and Raglan’s shoulders and back were damp with sweat — a definite perk in comparison to the frigid conditions closer to the perimeter of the territory.
He wasn’t sure what he was looking for, or if anything could be found, but despite the bugs and the humidity, the child within him had to admit that the ugly slorping of the muck was rather fun. Nostrils flaring, the pegasus found that he was beginning to develop an understanding of how the swampy smell had been layered; there was new rot, old rot, moisture, gentle and pungent decay, mildew, and the sweet earthy aroma of mud mud mud. Even the murky water had a scent all it’s own, and Raglan wondered that if he spent enough time there amid the gnarled roots, whether he too would start to carry the smell in his skin.
A gasp parted darkened lips as the horned stag pressed his hoof to what he had thought was a patch of solid earth, only to have the leg dip down into a shallow hole. Luckily, he was able to recover his balance and yanked the aforementioned limb from the muck without much consequence, but the Crow began to test surfaces before he stepped fully. Part of him wondered at the life that thrived even in the dead of winter — was it magic or was it just the enduring quality of nature?
What else thrived in the marsh?
Would they think he was tasty?
A flash of light, of gold on the edge of his vision caused the stallion to whirl to his left, silvery eyes blinking rapidly. What the Crow beheld weaving between the trees with a primordial, horrifying grace, was something familiar enough to be understood as equine, but other enough that Raglan was forced to categorize the creature as simply ‘other.’ It stood shorter than him at the translucent shoulder, though the head was crowned with a sharp metal halo — a terrifyingly elegant sunstrike slashed with deadly barbs. Raglan watched, still as death, expression a mixture between horror and awe, as those golden bones glinted in the murky light.
Gods, he hoped he wasn’t tasty.
The stallion swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, and tried his best to usher his sluggish thoughts into something coherent.
If the creature saw him — and it would spy him between the greens and browns of this swamp; he burned near bright as it (She? He would have been lying if he said he hadn’t glanced down to check at least the physical gender of the Other) did, what with that blazing bay coat of his — it wouldn’t play in the Crow’s favor to be gawking like a babe. There was a sentience to the way it moved, even if the pace was leisurely, unrushed. Raglan had to hope that amid that sentience was mercy.
“Fine day for swamp,” He called out lamely, a hopeful smile on his face, “Though I fear I may not possess the eye to truly appreciate it. How do you do?”
Fine day for swamp, indeed.
@Ophelia — :) our first thred bb
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