Terrastellan skies are beautiful, and Terrastellan updrafts are kind,
Terrastellan women are lovely, and Terrastellan boys are just fine.
Terrastella, she sighs long and soft, Terrastella she’s a sight to see,
Terrastella, Terrastella, she holds me aloft,
Terrastella, she sings me to sleep.
Despite whatever reputation the Kingdom of Dusk may have for kindly ways and the healing arts, not many spoke on the quality of the nation’s booze. Dipping and wheeling over the sea, great black tipped wings spread wide, Raglan hummed the song he had learned while swaying shoulder to shoulder with a crewfull of drunken sailors. With the capitol proper standing only a stones throw from a shipyard, an equine would be hard pressed to turn a blind eye to the many taverns and pubs littering the lower districts.
Only a few streets from bustling squares and quaint cafes, one could find an almost endearingly seedy bar. Indeed, the inn that Raglan had wandered into mere hours before was complete with sticky tables and the stench of ale so old, it had began to ferment once more in the crevasses where it had been spilled. It hadn’t taken long before the Silvertongue had made fast friends with the bunch of seafarers haunting the booths and found himself sloshing ale and slurring songs with the best of them.
So here he was, generously tipsy with legs soaked in salt spray as he flew over the jagged cliffside and raging waters, dancing over the sunset rays like a child. It was the first time in a long time that he had felt such ease, and part of him prayed he was not merely intoxicated by ale, but was drunk off contentment as well.
Terrastellan waters are plentiful, and Terrastellan shores do gleam,
Terrastellan drink is lustful, and Terrastellan drunks do lean,
Terrastella, she fills my sails, and Terrastella my ship does keep,
Ho, ho, Terrastella! Terrastella sings me to sleep.
She’s a sight to see, Terrastella, and Terrastella sings me to sleep.
They have begun to wonder if perhaps loneliness is just something that comes with being immortal, with being a Star Walker. They had been the first, and so far, the only one they've ever met that comes from such a line, if it could be called that. More like an existence in a herd that's long turned to nothing but whispers on the wind, their land ash and dust among the stars and horizons.
Cicatrix finds themselves alone more often than not, and not for lack of trying. They have met plenty of faces, though none had really stuck around after first meeting. Some are busy, and others? Others perhaps simply do not want to be around them. Not that they can blame others. The more time that goes on in Novus, the more they realize they stick out as a sore thumb. Gargantuan, reaching the very limits of size and of course, how they look.
Ears twist downward in the back of their cloak, and Cica turns their head away from the edge of the cliff. They had once found solace in the stars, but now they find nothing but an inky blackness that reminds them of just how small they are, and just how alone.
Fine delicate legs fold gently, and Cicatrix lays themselves on the ground, head lowering, wings curling to cup around their body to trap in heat and warmth. It isn't until they hear a voice that their head lifts, and even then, they hesitate. What if this is just another one doomed meeting? Another that they will end up not seeing again?
Life had been okay for a while, but never had the loneliness struck so hard.
Cicatrix does not call out. Instead, they only watch the distant figure as they move in the winds, swaying in a not so straight path, singing. At least someone is happy, they muse.
From where he wobbled across the cloud-slashed heavens, color caught his eye.
Blinking to clear his vision, the stallion narrowed his eyes and found that he had been joined by a lon equine, their skin of speckled starlight and wings holding a globe. Raglan blinked more, quickly this time, as if to guarantee that what he was seeing was indeed real. As he tilted wings made heavy from sea spray toward the cliff face, the figure became clearer, and stranger. Brows lifting from previously bleary eyes, the Silvertongue felt most of his buzz slip away in the face of a pure and overwhelming curiosity.
Despite his newfound mental clarity, simple interest could not chase away the effects of alcohol from the stallion’s body, and Raglan found himself coming in a tad too hot for a safe landing. His mouth pulled down into an expression of horror, and maybe some embarrassment, as he shakily maneuvered too quickly toward the earth. Letting out a shout of warning toward the long and lanky stranger laying upon the grasses, the Crow worked to throw his body wide of theirs. How had his aim become so sloppy?
Pale hooves struck the earth too hard, spindly legs scrambling with the forward momentum as great ebon tipped wings flapped wildly — the usually graceful thief having dissolved wholly into a sodden fledgeling. “Shit!” He cried as his clumsy attempts to remain upright gouged muddy stripes in the ground and his teeth clacked in his skull from the impact. “Shit!”
Eventually, some semblance of balance returned to the Crow’s limbs and his momentum died, carrying him some distance from the skull-faced stranger. Heaving a sigh and letting his wings droop in relief, Raglan turned about to face the otherworldly being. “Greetings!” Came his cheerful voice, the bright smile upon his lips a stark contrast to the chaotic landing that had just occurred, “I’d ask why the long face, but we are horses, and our faces tend to be pretty long.”
A stupid joke, he knew, but there was no law against stupid jokes... and even if there were one, there was nothing like idiocy to coax a smile from sadness.
