So you can throw me to the wolves,
tomorrow i will come back
leader of the whole pack.
There was only one way in and one way out; the portal among the shallow shores of Edana. He had emerged from such waters only a season ago, water nearly filling his lungs and soaking his ears. Then, it was terrifying. There was no fear such as that of crashing waves, tossing one's thrashing body to and fro. No control, no knowledge of where he was going... simply at the whim of each current.
This time, however, was different. He knew what he was getting into. It was time to leave one world and find another, and it was not long before the water had, once again, swallowed him whole. He closed his eyes and allowed for the cool waves to wash over his fiery skin. It sizzled from the touch, his internal flame raging against the icy touch of the water. Dondre willed his magic to quiet, taking once last breath before the ocean washed over his head.
The next time he opened his eyes, he found himself someplace new. This was not the calm emergence from the shallows, but a frantic escape from the sea. The waves crashed and swirled, pulling the stallion under water just long enough for his head to spin, before spitting him back to the surface, only to do it all over again. Around and round he went, until his hooves hit rock and broken sea glass. He was thrown to the shore with an oof, the air knocked from his lungs.
There he laid, his muscles aching and heart pounding, gasping for air and coughing seawater from his mouth and nose. Its salty taste against his tongue was revolting, sand stuck to his teeth. Steam rose from his form, desperate to dry his drenched coat and warm his shaking limbs. His vision blurred as his eyelids grew heavy, begging the stallion to stay where he was and give way to darkness. Sleep, just for a moment. But the knight knew better. A resting dragon was a dead dragon, especially in a strange land.
With a groan, he hauled himself himself to his hooves, stumbling several steps before he managed to find his balance. Flicking his damp forelock from his eyes, he scanned his surroundings with a sigh. Jagged rocks jutted from the sand, a crab scurried toward the sea. Well, he thought to himself with a lopsided frown, we know the wrong way is behind us.
IN THE PARAMETERS OF CANVAS, THE COFFIN OF THE FRAME - the art of wreckage, how to figure ourselves in the ruins of what we can't traverse.
It’s a mild, grey day, and she wouldn’t normally be out for it, least of all beachcombing. Maybe she would have been when she was younger and more foolish, but not now – now she knows better than to wander the beach carelessly, much like she knows better than to waste time. With the boat docked in Solterra, however, and her deliveries completed, Locust has found herself left with too much free time and too little to do with it. It is this kind of day where she feels the absence of her crew most strongly. She can’t think of anything poetic to compare it to; only that they are gone, and she is still here, prodding absently at washed-up driftwood and kelp-covered objects, the occasional gleaming seashell. The sound of the ocean – sometimes forgettable enough to be almost silent, and sometimes all but roaring when the wind lessens – is ever-present behind her, but she keeps her distant from the sea.
Looking too closely at it makes her stomach turn. She can handle it on the boats because she is working, and she doesn’t have to think about it. Locust doesn’t know what brought her out today; she probably just didn’t know where else to go, and, so, she always goes back to the sea. She doesn’t want to anymore, but she doesn’t know any other way about it.
It is from some distance, while perched atop an inky crop of stones leading up to the shoreline, that Locust sees the man. He’s soaked – mane sea-swept and sticking to his skin, crusted in salt and sand, faintly steaming. (A mage, or some trick of the light? It’s hard to tell, but Locust can’t be bothered to care about the difference anyways.) As he stumbles to his hooves, she stares him down impassively, considering his awkward steps and scraggly features as best she can from the distance between them. It is always a gamble to approach strangers on the shore. (Locust wants to be sure that it is one she can win.)
He could be some poor, shipwrecked passenger, thrown to the tides. He could also be one of them, all sharp teeth behind a deceptively familiar face. (That was the worst part of them, Locust thought. They could be anywhere and anyone, and most of the time they’d never be fool enough to let you know.) Still, on the off chance that he is something washed up by the tides, not a carnivore, Locust cascades down the rocks like a crest of sea-foam, her hooves pressing ebony half-moons into the pale, wet sand. There is the salt in her lungs, and the sea in her ears, and, in a few long, quick strides, she has closed most of the distance between them, though she keeps some of it as a precaution. She tilts her head at him, white strands of her forelock threatening to tumble in her eyes with a click of pearls, and she smiles, though the gesture is not quite warm. “Did you wash up from a shipwreck?”
She isn't sure if he did. But - hopefully he will explain, even if the circumstances of his arrival are something else entirely. (Better yet, if he is one of them, though she cannot imagine a water-horse looking so bedraggled in his own element.)
So you can throw me to the wolves,
tomorrow i will come back
leader of the whole pack.
He did not know how long he wandered- away from the sea and toward, what he hoped, was a way off this beach. He hated the feeling of sand against his pelt, crunching beneath salt-cracked hooves and gritting against his teeth from when the sea had lurched him into land. No amount of spitting and grinding his teeth would relieve him of the grit, so he locked his jaw and focused forward, his gaze lingering on stones that jutted from the pearly sands. They beckoned him forward, though their appearance was anything but inviting. However, he figured if he could get up high, he would have a better chance of finding civilization. If that was something that existed in this world.
He had not noticed how much his shoulder ached until now; the impact against hardened sands straining his muscles and bruising his bone. However, now with a limp in his step, he could not help but smile (it was a smile that did not reach his tired eyes, however). He thought back to the scar that traced up his leg; he had received that just before entering a new land as well. Perhaps, the next time, it would kill him. He wasnt sure if that would be an improvement or not; perhaps, though, he would actually get some rest.
He chuckled at that though. Rest was only for those who had found their graves. He had a feeling he was not quite ready for his yet.
Lost deep in his thoughts, he did not notice the shimmering lady that approached him, until the pearls that caressed her face caught the light of the sun just right, flickering out of the corner of his eye. He paused, ears shifting toward her, breath caught in his lungs. He did not turn to face her until she spoke, her voice warm. He never knew how the locals would react to someone like him.
A shipwreck? His gaze was quick, but he scanned the woman before him. A silver coat with dark points, hair that was brighter than snow before it was trodden on. Spines across her back, stripes on her rumps and shoulders. She stayed far enough away from him, however, that he caught the hint of distrust. He would be distrustful of a man like himself as well.
"Something like that." He finally replied with a polite dip of his head, his voice deep and rumbling, hinting at the power that he once had, but mostly overrun with weariness. "I'm simply passing through- looking for someone. Are you a native? What is the name of this land?" Curiosity quirked his brow as he turned his attention away from the mare before him and looked beyond her form, at the cliff he had been aiming to go toward. He closed his eyes for a moment, and like that, the steam that rose from his body was gone, his coat dry once more.
