RENWICK
There's no good in these caves. Life thrives even in the most dark of places, and Abigo is not exception. Once upon a time, skirmishes had been fought in these cave networks, opposed to the scorching and mountainous battlefields of the World above. Going in alone had been near suicide, and those that braved the deep roads had to contend with the knowledge death might come from the shadows. There was no training for that, it was all down to instinct and reflexes. Who was quicker, meaner, more agile.
He'd used the Cave Network in his tenure in the Night Army, he and the Knights had used it initially to get behind the Sun King's lines. He remembered the metallic taste in the air, old blood, the smell of dead flesh. The bodies slung up against the cave walls because no one had the time, nor energy to give them their proper rites. Even now, after what seemed like a life time, he can still smell it. All the flowers and perfumes from fair maids could rid his memory of that particular scent.
The press of his lantern against his shoulder is a comfort, as well as the bags around his barrel. Filled with supplies for this particular ranging, in truth, it's filled with wine and other sweet treats. There are no more lit torches along his way, and he dared not change that. Soldiers using the Caves had long been abandoned, and now it's a hive for Vagabonds and Thieves whom toe the line, trade in secret and chance their luck between the Realms. He's chased more than his fair share back into these pits, he's caught a hell of a lot more before they've slipped into the darkness' embrace. Lashed their legs together and dragged them screaming back toward the Capital for punishment.
Locks of chocolate and smoke draped in messy waves across his neck, down they spiraled, further and further until they caressed his knees. Clutched in the ombre strands are flowers, amaryllis flowers twined against moonflowers, delicate and sweet smelling. The same pale flowers also wrap the locks of his tail around themselves, embedded luxuriously in the curly strands like a jealous lover. Though, he can no longer smell their sweet notes, instead he can smell rushing water, fresh and revitalizing against the damp smell of rock. White painted ears tipped forward in interest, nostrils flared to drink in the freshness.
He'd come this way only once before in his ranging, the Lake is Calligo's mirror. A safe haven for those that need to take a moment and to breath. Or hide out a storm. One or the other. It's a greater place as any to spend the night. The World would keep turning, but it would not miss him much and he the same. The lantern is left propped against some rock, wick extinguished and he steadily moved toward the water. He has no need to be afraid of this darkness, the midnight canvas of the sky illuminated with hundreds of Calligo's diamonds. It was the sky he was born into, and one day, it will be the sky he runs in when his soul ascended to meet with his Goddess. Or so the priests liked to say.
But before he can reveal himself to the cool waters, his moonstone eyes instead caught the familiar glint of silver. Instead, he retreated, as silent as he could be against stone and brush. Obscured by one of the boulders, he peered, cautiously, curiously at the mare. A hawk watching something of interest, a wolf in the grass. She's all bonfire smoke and the fog over the sea after a storm, that mist which reached out and ensnared all when it rolled down the mountainside. Silver veins of ore and silver tresses of the molten metal. Renwick would of called her spellbinding, would of vocalized it at least, but the silver which had caught his eye called to him again. Caused whatever part of him would of spurred him to speak up to wilt.
She was beautiful, but she was cursed. A cursed thing he had seen once before, like a serpent uncoiling and poison in the veins blooming on a canvas of paled skin. The memories surfaced and frothed over his chalice. No longer can he smell fresh water, damp rocks or the cloying scent of something carried by the silent winds. All he can smell is the heat, blood on sand, the acrid dryness of the desert air. He'd seen those twisted metal collars on twisted little things once. He'd been no more than a boy himself, really. A boy battle born and battle bred, trained for warfare.
But he'd been green, ever so green to the reality. He hadn't been a wolf then, he hadn't earned his armor or his title.
Instead of the compliment he had envisioned saying to her, and imagined her deflecting with all the grace of a storm and a mare who knew better. All he uttered was a, "You were one of them." Hooves clacked against the stone as he finally revealed himself, closer and closer to the water while those moonstone eyes of his refused to leave. "One of the child soldiers." He'd never imagined he'd see one alive. Grown up of all things. He'd imagined they'd all died, mindless, crippled in the heat as the vultures and sun took care of the rest. If they hadn't been given a merciful death at the hands of someone who gave a damn.
But there one is. All grown up, mountain mist and ocean fog, silver ore and molten metal. With the collar still clasped around her throat.
TAG; @
NOTES; let it begin!
