[P] tangled up in blue;

[Asterion]

Asterion in sunshine and in shadow* There’s something missing in him, some was-there-but-now-isn’t, but so far Asterion hasn’t noticed. There are other things on his mind: the ache in his muscles, the fuzziness in his head like his brain became a beehive somewhere between Ravos and here. Perhaps the rift had done it, the magic made him mad - but he doesn’t feel mad. Just sleepy and strange and lonely. He’d like more than anything to sleep, but there’s a summer storm coming. It’s building on the horizon, an ominous green, and the air where he stands is still and humid as a held breath. There are no birds singing, but there is a droning of drowsy summer insects, and a blackbird darts across the still grass and vanishes into a distant treeline. He ought to find shelter, too. There seems to be few enough options, and he finds himself jealous for the bird’s ability to fly - nevertheless he follows it, loping with a nervous whicker toward the trees. Scant enough cover it was - only a narrow band of oaks, their leaves beginning to shiver in the stirring wind. But it was better than waiting it out in a bare field. In Ravos, the storms could be fearsome, feral things, biting wind and lashing rain and thunder like a moan. He hopes this one is only a summer thunderstorm, all noise and no teeth, but still the boy shivers with nerves and his dark eyes are wary. Even so there is a part of him that wonders in awe at the way the rain, when it comes, sweeps across the plain and the grasses all bend before the wind like waves. The canopy he stands beneath is thick enough that at first he only hears the rain on the leaves, a sound like silver between the rumbles of thunder. Eventually raindrops do reach him, but after the sticky heat of the afternoon they feel good against his skin. There should be a stirring there, a recognition in his blood of the water that once was his, but there is nothing. He is just beginning to realize it when there comes another distraction - the sound of movement through the brush, barely heard above the storm - and he turns to find a mare there, heavy with the scent of flowers, honey-golden and very, very wet. Asterion can’t help the little grin that makes its way across his lips, the way his brow lifts as he takes the sight of her in. “Not quite quick enough?”  @Florentine