f
ang doesn’t remember the last time he has been able to sleep well—or have any semblance of a normal sleep schedule at all, for that matter.
He was already restless when he was crowned the emperor of Blue Sage Meadows; the responsibilities of his new duties often kept him awake, worrying about his people and the recuperation of their beloved home. And then the Terrors started—first the werewolf attack, a savage monster that ripped through each of them like a sword through cloth (he can still feels its claws slicing between his ribs and straight through his lung, he can still taste the blood that flooded his own body as he choked). Even now, he represses a shiver as the ghosts of old wounds continue to haunt him.
That initial massacre only paved the way for the masses that would follow. Hordes of cruel beasts that would hunt them from the shadows, their blood-curling shrieks echoing through the darkness, heralded by the wails of those unfortunate enough to fall victim to their bloodthirst. He can still hear the cries.
Plagued by nightmares he fears will never cease, it is not unusual to find the red stallion awake at this primordial hour. He soars idly over Denocte’s glassy lake, gliding just high enough to not disturb its polished surface. He breathes in the crisp air, caught in the silence of the world just before dawn, when everything is still, just waiting for the sun to break over the horizon. In a moment like this, it is easy to forget that there is anyone else alive in the world. The last thing Fang expects is for an ashy figure to suddenly materialize from the silvers and blues of the mists, resting unwittingly at the edge of the lake.
And squarely in his path.
“Watch out!”
He quickly tucks his wings in an effort to veer himself away, but it is too late to avoid an accident entirely—Fang is already colliding with the solid shoulder of the stranger. He tumbles to the ground in a graceless heap of long limbs and flapping wings, grunting with the force of air that is propelled from his lungs. “Oh, my goodness—shit—I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Fang is half-wheezing with his apology, which is peppered by a steady stream of murmured “I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry”’s as he works to detangle himself from the poor man he slammed into.
“Dammit. Please forgive my ineptitude, I’m usually not this oblivious,” Fang says once he is finally able to stand again, chuckling humorlessly to himself. Shaking blades of grass from his curls, he turns to the stranger with his brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
tag; @Reinhart
“…”
He was already restless when he was crowned the emperor of Blue Sage Meadows; the responsibilities of his new duties often kept him awake, worrying about his people and the recuperation of their beloved home. And then the Terrors started—first the werewolf attack, a savage monster that ripped through each of them like a sword through cloth (he can still feels its claws slicing between his ribs and straight through his lung, he can still taste the blood that flooded his own body as he choked). Even now, he represses a shiver as the ghosts of old wounds continue to haunt him.
That initial massacre only paved the way for the masses that would follow. Hordes of cruel beasts that would hunt them from the shadows, their blood-curling shrieks echoing through the darkness, heralded by the wails of those unfortunate enough to fall victim to their bloodthirst. He can still hear the cries.
Plagued by nightmares he fears will never cease, it is not unusual to find the red stallion awake at this primordial hour. He soars idly over Denocte’s glassy lake, gliding just high enough to not disturb its polished surface. He breathes in the crisp air, caught in the silence of the world just before dawn, when everything is still, just waiting for the sun to break over the horizon. In a moment like this, it is easy to forget that there is anyone else alive in the world. The last thing Fang expects is for an ashy figure to suddenly materialize from the silvers and blues of the mists, resting unwittingly at the edge of the lake.
And squarely in his path.
“Watch out!”
He quickly tucks his wings in an effort to veer himself away, but it is too late to avoid an accident entirely—Fang is already colliding with the solid shoulder of the stranger. He tumbles to the ground in a graceless heap of long limbs and flapping wings, grunting with the force of air that is propelled from his lungs. “Oh, my goodness—shit—I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!” Fang is half-wheezing with his apology, which is peppered by a steady stream of murmured “I’msorryI’msorryI’msorry”’s as he works to detangle himself from the poor man he slammed into.
“Dammit. Please forgive my ineptitude, I’m usually not this oblivious,” Fang says once he is finally able to stand again, chuckling humorlessly to himself. Shaking blades of grass from his curls, he turns to the stranger with his brow furrowing in concern. “Are you alright? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”
tag; @Reinhart
“…”
Courage,
dear heart.
Lost boys like me
are free.
are free.
please tag Fang in all replies; magic and force are permitted
