LYSANDER
The first thing that catches him straight from a tear between worlds is the cold.
In the Riftlands the weather had followed its own mad rules; feral magic had driven it wild. Deserts were born of seas and caves crumbled into canyons, but rarely did the wind blow with a bite and a whisper of colder to come. Now that he considers it, Lysander has never seen a winter.
He can’t say he is eagerly anticipating the prospect. Nevertheless, stagnation is dullness and dullness may as well be death –
And besides, Florentine is around here somewhere. That is enough to make this world worth exploring. Not that he has the option to leave; once he has been unceremoniously birthed into this November-gray meadow, the window between the worlds knits itself shut.
There is a quirk to his dark lips as he watches it go, though he says nothing, only wonders for a moment what will become of those left behind. Perhaps the little Anthousai had left other tears for them to escape through; perhaps she’d be back with a way to save them all.
It would not surprise him, but then not much did.
Next he stretches, long and languid as a cat, and scratches his neat arch of antlers against a black knee.
Only then does he take in the world around him. Green-brown grasses blown flat with the wind that riffles its way through his dark curly hair, and thick furrows of clouds like fields that stretch from horizon to horizon, and nearly nothing else. If he is unimpressed he does not show it; he only begins to walk, a gait as feline as his stretch.
He knows it is only a matter of time until he finds someone. Lysander is never alone for long.
@Florentine for the mentions, and @Crux if you wanna talk midnighters - but anyone welcome!
In the Riftlands the weather had followed its own mad rules; feral magic had driven it wild. Deserts were born of seas and caves crumbled into canyons, but rarely did the wind blow with a bite and a whisper of colder to come. Now that he considers it, Lysander has never seen a winter.
He can’t say he is eagerly anticipating the prospect. Nevertheless, stagnation is dullness and dullness may as well be death –
And besides, Florentine is around here somewhere. That is enough to make this world worth exploring. Not that he has the option to leave; once he has been unceremoniously birthed into this November-gray meadow, the window between the worlds knits itself shut.
There is a quirk to his dark lips as he watches it go, though he says nothing, only wonders for a moment what will become of those left behind. Perhaps the little Anthousai had left other tears for them to escape through; perhaps she’d be back with a way to save them all.
It would not surprise him, but then not much did.
Next he stretches, long and languid as a cat, and scratches his neat arch of antlers against a black knee.
Only then does he take in the world around him. Green-brown grasses blown flat with the wind that riffles its way through his dark curly hair, and thick furrows of clouds like fields that stretch from horizon to horizon, and nearly nothing else. If he is unimpressed he does not show it; he only begins to walk, a gait as feline as his stretch.
He knows it is only a matter of time until he finds someone. Lysander is never alone for long.
@
Oh, it’s a bad, bad ritual
Oh, but it calms me down
