 I S O R A T H THE LONE WOLF DIES // THE PACK SURVIVES
Any other Taeryn would not have pulled such a reaction from him, perhaps one moment of pure elation that at last, there is another out there that can relate. For just a moment, they could bemoan the differences of the lands beyond the smoking sea and the wailing mountains. How magic was rare and precious, where in their homeland it was alive, it saturated the air and danced around the hooves of all those who were blessed. But Jude, the petite Kirin is not just another Taeryn. He can remember the first time he had laid eyes upon him, the splendid pyre and the Dragon's which had loomed overhead, ready upon his mother's word to commit him to the fire. He had stolen his breath that day, and with careful, tender hooves planted a seed within his heart that would slumber until the time came for it to bloom. Sometimes he wondered, late at night as the flames grew low and sleep began to take hold, what the painter was doing. Did he still smell of orchids and the faint whisper of roses? Did he still have smudges of paint upon his cheeks. Did he still paint? Did he still tend to his Garden's like he used to? No, no one else could of pulled such a viseral, real reaction from the damaged stallion. Neither would he have let them. His own heartbeat thundered in his ears, nostrils flared and ears pressed forward. Part of him screamed to stop, the dignified part of himself that could excuse the sloppiness of his landing but not his presentation. He needed to slow down, compose himself, remember who he was. It was beneath him, to run like a moonstruck colt until he was out of breath, the fire in his veins igniting his bones into something more. All the finery he wrapped himself in was more than mere ornaments, but a symbol of his station. He had been a Prince, and an Emperor once. He was the blood of Vectaeryn, the very essence of Dragon's was weaved into every inch of life thread. Isorath can ignore the screams of his pride and vanity, even if his bones ache from it. There is a sweeter ache in his chest which drowned it out. His hooves carry him swiftly until he's upon Jude's slender, fragile frame. His hair is a mess, untangled and unraveled from the braids he had pinned them not even an hour before, curled strands falling over his antlers and framing his sharp face while other pieces billowed in the breeze. Back legs buckled to slide him to an elegant stop, his wings rushed forward to try envelop Jude within their embrace and bring him close to his decorated form. "What are you doing here?" He managed between breaths, stolen by elation and exertion, his eyes scanning every inch of Jude's face not hidden beneath the soft waves of his pastel hair. He really was here, not just a figment of his imagination or a musing gone too far down the rabbit hole. How does he apologize? The question hits him like a scaled tail from the sky, shattering his insides and crumbling him further apart, even though everything is suddenly bright. He had come and gone like a phantom, in and out of the smaller stallion's life when he knew it would only hurt him. "How did you get here?" Isorath asked instead, even though he had desperately wanted to choke out an apology, his pride forcing it back down his gullet and pulling a more suitable question out instead. He cannot see Jude making the trip through the sloping, jagged and dangerous passes of the mountain, but he cannot imagine him upon a ship in the smoke either. Only then does his draconian eyes spot the tear tracks on his scaled face and his expression changes to one of concern, head tilted to better check the Kirin wrapped within his wings. "Why have you been crying?" |
@Jude
