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Played by Offline sid [PM] Posts: 297 — Threads: 48
Signos: 125
Dawn Court Sovereign
Male [He/Him/His] // 7 [Year 497 Winter] // 16 hh // Hth: 45 — Atk: 35 — Exp: 77 // Active Magic: Nature Spirit // Bonded: Odet (Stellar's Jay)

you be the wind
i'll be the wildflower

If feels as if he’s moving through a dream, half-aware of his surroundings, half-feeling the forest soil crunching like broken bones beneath his hooves. No matter how many times he shifts his glance back and forth over the same stretch of trees, he doesn’t see them, not truly; the paper-white trunks all blend together, and as obvious as he hopes the scars would be, they aren’t.

The forest had never seemed so empty as it did today, with frost limning the trees and clouds turning the sky an endless shade of grey so deep and so perverse it made the air itself taste melancholic.

He knows he should hate it.

Maybe there was still a part of him that did, an Ipomoea whose skin was crawling and whose wings were trembling and whose entire being revolted against being here alone, whose every instinct begged him to turn and return to the flowery, sunlit safety of the court. He liked to think there was - that he had not yet changed so irrevocably so as to not recognize himself in the mirror. Some days, when he looked around and saw little more than blood and blood-stained papers (and realized, with a shock, that he didn’t mind seeing so much red), he clung to that thought as a way of clinging to his own sense of self. But if that part of him lived still, it was hiding deep enough for him to not feel like he was anything more than another dark thing walking in the forest.

And when the rest of the forest had gone quiet, afraid to speak his name or reach for his shoulder, there was nothing else left to remind him to be something different.

So he wanders half a ghost through the same few acres, trekking his way back and forth, back and forth like he thinks moving his path three paces to the left each time will make a difference.

Even so, he almost walks right past the trap waiting half buried in the leaves.

these will get better


Played by Offline griffin [PM] Posts: 17 — Threads: 4
Signos: 165
Dawn Court Citizen
Male [He/Him/His] // 9 [Year 495 Fall] // 18 hh // Hth: 12 — Atk: 8 — Exp: 10 // Active Magic: N/A // Bonded: N/A


The moral of the tale is this: whoever allows himself to be whipped, deserves to be whipped.
All the world was gray, like the clouds had descended and swallowed them all, and it suited Sarkan just fine.

It meant he was better camouflaged than usual, and despite the cold he kept his cloak tucked in his pack. Slowly he eased his way through trunks of beech and birch, papery trunks and dark knots that watched him like eyes. Occasionally a bird cheeped at him, and for a few minutes a crow flew overhead, branch to branch before him, one beady gleaming eye fixed on him. But it only croaked once, glossy feathers thick at its throat, before flying off to harass something more interesting than a horse showing no haste as it passed beneath the bare-branched canopy.

Sarkan was not out today to lay snares and set traps. Quite the opposite - the grey was making a last loop around snares he’d set days ago, disassembling them and tucking loops of wire back into his pack. So far they’d all been empty - just as well, as the patrols were winding ever-nearer to where he worked, and he didn’t need so much as a splash of blood to give him away. His mentor had always said a greedy man was a dead one, and it didn’t take a wise man to see the truth in it.

Though he did feel a little wistful, thinking of all the wealth Viride still held. He was certain there were potent magics in species yet to be discovered, and if he knew someone on the continent capable of unraveling those mysteries…

But he did not. His allies in Delumine were nonexistent, and in Novus they were few. While he could likely live undiscovered in the forest for a while, especially as spring came and the undergrowth bloomed thick to disguise him by sight and scent, Sarkan had never had a problem quitting while he was ahead. And ahead was a loose term, now that there were deaths of more than just dumb animals on his conscience.

Unknowingly, he walked a slanted route to Ipomoea, the two of them drawing together at the point of the trap. Sarkan was the first to realize he was no longer alone; the forest had that held-breath hush, and the stallion fell still too, until he could pinpoint the sound of hoof steps in the wet dead leaves. He stood with his head cocked, listening closely, a frown growing heavy on his mouth; whoever it was, they were walking slowly, back and forth, undoubtedly searching. And undoubtedly too close for comfort to his trap.

He should have melted away into the forest, dissipating like fog. If whoever it was blundered into his snare, he could just as easily get himself out; it was nothing but a wire loop set to tighten, and telekinesis made it a simple escape.

Instead, as the paint meandered into view and straight toward the trap, Sarkan broke the near-silence with a shout.

“Ho there, look out!” When he loped forward, abandoning all effort to keep quiet, it was with an expression of deep concern. “There’s a trap just there,” he huffed between breaths, and jerked his muzzle toward what the stallion had no doubt just discovered - but his bright blue eyes never left the other man’s face.



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