He came to the cliffs at times when his mind was racing and being around other people, even utter strangers, felt too suffocating to bear. Atlas was, at his heart, a desert creature,and the jagged terrain and sharp dropoffs of Praistigia were difficult for him to adjust to, at first. It took long hours of exploration to realize the toothed coastline and the vacuous sandhills of his homeland were not so different, after all: they were both frequently desolate, home to flesh-cutting winds, lacked a reliable source of suitable drinking water and were, ultimately, dangerous, though the reasons varied slightly.
Outside of struggling to find the essentials necessary for survival, the biggest danger of the desert was getting lost. Even those with the best internal sense of direction would get confused after long hours of motion in the unforgiving heat, as the dunes rolled around them in perfectly dissimilar refractions of themselves. Here on the coast, he did not need to worry so much about losing his way (the shoreline was large and long and unmissable, after all) as he did losing himself: one slip on damp stone meant broken bones or worse, and a tumble on crumbling rock could introduce him, prematurely, to a dark and watery grave.
Atlas' ventures over the monolithic cliffs became bolder and bolder each go-round. He chose one path to commit to memory and walked it each time as it wound its way through deep crags and climbed up on sharp clifftops. A lifetime of walking made him hardy, strong, and, perhaps most importantly, patient; there was enough adventure under his belt to keep his adrenaline-seeking side sated for eternity. His cliffside strolls were never rushed, and he picked each step with caution, only applying his weight when he was certain he would not perish with the commitment.
It was nearing dusk now and the sea was a black, vague stretch out to the bright orange of the horizon line. Above, the scattered, fluffy clouds were tinged burgundy and wine as the sun drew its claws against the sky in the last remnants of the day. Atlas lifted his head into the cool wind, the dense scent of salt and rime making his breaths feel heavy and cold. Despite summer's arrival, the temperatures on the shore stayed moderate for the warm seasons because of the ocean, and with the disappearance of the sun, it was quickly getting chilly.
The stars were out, though; they comforted him. He scanned the heavens to settle his racing mind and found old friends out of what was once confusion and chaos. Sections of the firmament were blocked by pink-hued cumulous, but he knew them so well he simply filled in the blanks.
Out over Terminus' vastness, he found Azimal, distant and pale-white to the south. It was not the original star he christened with his old name, of course; it changed with his travels and his environment and with him. He locked his eyes on the beacon of light and sighed. The wind stole his breath and stowed it away to keep.
A long time ago, Atlas felt comfortable amongst rushing crowds and bustling noise going hand in hand with living in a city. Now it smothered him, and he longed for wide-open expanses and the burn of the sun on his face. What kept him rooted in Terrastella was as much a mystery to him as the future is to any not blessed with preternatural foresight. Maybe, possibly, his penchant for roaming had faded and he really did crave some sort of a fixed lifestyle; but if this was the case, why did he have so many damn panic attacks?
It just did not make sense. Atlas had seen vicious, bloody battles, been witness firsthand to trauma, torture, and suffering of all accords, watched his mother hemorrhage to death on the floor in front of him, had his whole life ripped and torn away from him not once, but twice-- and now his biggest stressor was facing a moderate crowd on his way home from work to his modest bunk.
A droplet of the vast sea pinged against his cheek and brought him back to reality. With gentle telekinesis, he tucked a corner of Nashira's crumbled cloak tight against itself to keep it secured in the wind, and pushed ahead on his path.
"Atlas" | THANK U SID 4 MY LIFE | Atlas is recovering from a panic attack, come say hi!
08-12-2019, 07:26 PM
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Zombie [PM] Posts: 109 — Threads: 15 Signos: 650
He had come to know and love the cliff-side, finding it peaceful and helped to strengthen his resolve. It was here that he stood at the top of the cliff, looking over at the setting sun. The sea wind whipped through his mane, brushing it from his eyes and given him clear vision even though his eyes were closed in blissful wonder. He heaved a heavy breath, his chest filling with oxygen and he could almost feel the way the deep breath seemed to calm him. The taste of the salty-sea air on his tongue was refreshing. And when his eyes finally opened, he was met with the reds and oranges of the summer sunset.
It was peaceful here. There was no other place in Terrastella quite like this place. He came here often, probably too often and it was where he had met Asterion one morning as he watched the sun rise. This cliff, for all the dangers it held, was the only way that Rhone could truly let go. So many things in his past, so many regrets. It was here that he could just let the sea wind take all his worries from him and leave him feeling open and vulnerable.
Eyes looked over to the small (but growing) oak tree that he had planted just months ago. His magic had given this tree life and it would be magic that helped it grow. Being able to plant such beauty in a place that might not otherwise harbor such beauty was a glorious thing. It made him feel whole and important. One day, this small oak tree would become a mighty oak that not even the wind from a hurricane could knock it down.
There is a shuffling of footsteps coming from the broadside of the cliffs and it breaks Rhone’s thoughts and reflections. It wasn’t often that he ran into another soul up here, so he wondered just who was approaching. It wasn’t until the other stallion took a step onto the top of the cliffs that Rhone offered him a smile. It was a new face, one he hadn’t recognized before. And yet, the possibility of meeting someone knew was quite thrilling.
And so, the bay stepped towards the stranger and soon realized that the man was not exactly relaxed. The cliffs were a place that he often came to let loose, and this gentleman appear anything but relaxed. He offered him a soft, tender smile, hoping that the expression might give him some sort of comfort in this moment. "It is beautiful, isn’t it?" Soft eyes drifted off towards the setting sun, taking in the colors and the feel of this particular end of day. Perhaps gentle conversation would help this man.
He spent the early days of his youth in ivory towers far above the sea. Watching it from the balcony terrace of his bedroom as it foamed, white-mouthed, against the coast, did nothing to prepare him for seeing it up close and personal. Its power and sheer volume were dulled down to a simple roar by great heights and the comfort of wealth. The Al-Tarazad estate bordered the coast; most of the seven wealthiest families owned a portion of it, with the First family owning an entire island. Their estate had a magnificent marble bridge which led to a private landing. Slaves would row a splendid golden ferry to and fro at their master's behest. Atlas had never seen the island in person, but from the shore, it was a verdant smudge on the horizon, proliferated with transplanted greenery and probably sporting haciendas built on the backs and bones of the servants who died building them.
He was shaken from thoughts of his home by another form, revealed after he came to the top of a high, but not particularly difficult, ridge. Below, the steep cliff dropped down to white swirls in a purple sea. In her rapid arrival, Night was turning the tawny striations in the rock face eerie shades of black and blue.
Atlas didn't get out too often, but when he did, he stayed out for long periods of time; he'd never seen another venture to the cliffs as he did, in the last hours of the day or early ones of the morning. It seemed to him a very private venture, as here he was, struggling to find his peace and clear his head. He hesitated to move forward, tempted to duck back down the ridge and hope the stranger had not seen him; but he was distracted by what the stranger stood next to.
Trees on the coast-- like trees in the desert-- were a rarity. Layers of limestone and thick granite made for poor growing conditions, as they lacked a true layer of soil. Roots fought hard to prosper in rock. There were times, as well, when the tide was high and the wind was fierce that great waves of salinated water would roll over the cliff face and poison much of the less hardy plant life which had taken root. What few trees survived were robust species, mangroves, and palmettos, and flowering myrtles. They were usually short, thick, small, and had an oblong spread of branches, pushed by the wind and appearing like smears of brown paint in the sky.
This tree was different, though. At first, Atlas thought it was a rather large piece of driftwood, foisted up the rocks by a powerful storm surge. But as he looked-- and moved-- closer, he realized this was not the case. It was a young growth, but did not seem pressed by the presence of harsh winds; its roots were solidly in the ground and not forced over and bared; it was not encrusted in salt or dangling in flotsam.
Atlas enraptured by his curiosity, he did not even realize he had been moving closer; only when he heard the stranger speak did he freeze in place, mid-stride, neck elongated to get a closer look at the young tree. His brown eyes were white-edged and strained with stress and surprise. He flicked his gaze upwards at the stranger, a blackening shape in the falling night. He was looking out towards the horizon, and not at Atlas, which made him feel a little less like he was trespassing.
"Yes," he said lamely, torn between the beautiful sunset, the beautiful sea, their beautiful surroundings, the beautiful, impossible treeling... or the stranger's densely muscled and rugged features, discernable as lines of rippling, pink-hued light in the dusk. Atlas swallowed and cleared his throat, a gentle cough smothered by the winds. "I-- I hope I'm not interrupting," he continued, also lamely, struck by the stranger's size and solidity. "I've never..." he struggled to find the bravery to finish speaking. His voice was still shaky from his earlier panic-maddened flight, and his thoughts were a jumbled mess, made no better by the presence of a handsome stranger. "...never run into anyone else out here, but I suppose that couldn't last forever, huh?"
He tried to smile and only winced. Gods, he sounded stupid. There was a reason he avoided talking to people! And the reason was himself!
It was all beautiful. The sunset had a way of calming the stallion. The purple hues leading the sun and moon in a delicate dance. The way the sun washed away the harshness of the day and brought forth the beauty of night. It was something the stallion enjoyed watching, just as he loved to watch the way the sun seemed to break through the clouds and welcome a new day.
Beauty was not only in the sunset, but in the ocean as well. The fading light made the water appear deep navy, the white caps crashing against the rock of the cliffside and spraying a water stream that traveled up the ridge. The taste of salt on his lips was intoxicating. The sound the waves made was refreshing and relaxing. Rhone couldn’t help the way his body relaxed.
And if that was not all beautiful enough, the small oak tree at his sign was the definition of a beautiful miracle. While the tree was not as robust as one needed to thrive here, it was with Rhone’s own magic that it grew. Rhone would come here daily and help it along, helping until it knew the roots could carry the tree through adulthood. While the young tree was about his own height now, he remembered back when it was just a sapling. He had encouraged its growth and no look what it had become! Time would only do more wonders for this little tree.
Eyes turned to look at the stallion as he came closer, the other’s attention also nestled upon the tree. At his words of hesitation, hoping he was not intruding, Rhone could only shake his head at the sooty dunalino. "I welcome company." His words soft, the gaze of his eyes on the other stallion even softer. Lips curl into a smile as he tilts his head, an invitation to join him as he watches the final rays of sunlight dip below the horizon.
He heard the waiver in the stranger’s voice, but he was unsure what made him so uneasy. If he had known that the other was nervous around such a handsome man such as himself, he would have blushed. No one had thought him handsome in a long time. Only Ariannah and Dierdre had eyes for him. His lovers were long, gone, though, and he was left alone and unafraid.
He waited until the other was a hair closer, so they could converse over the crashing of waves below. Rhone was a patient, gentle soul, letting nothing dampen his spirits in this moment. "I am quite surprised. Asterion and I visit here often." While he had only seen the king on the ridge at the moment the oak tree was planted, he knew the king would come here often to reflect, just as he enjoyed doing.
Once more he looked out over the horizon, watching as a dolphin leapt from the sea. It was a beautiful sight and it caused another smile to curl at his lips. "You are always welcome here, it’s nice to have company every once and awhile." Sometimes it could get lonely in silent reflection. Some days he only wanted to be alone, but like today, he did not mind the pleasant conversation. "I’m Rhone, by the way." His words were soft as he gently looked over to the other scholar. He felt as though he might have seen him before, but he couldn’t not place where and he knew he certainly had not properly introduced himself. Now, as Dusk’s Champion of Wisdom, he supposed he should probably get to know those who also called Terrastella home.
The stranger does not seem adverse to his arrival, so Atlas relaxes slightly. The wind is picking up the pale golden threads of his mane-- a more tarnished yellow than the truly spun gold of his tail-- and making a gilded, stormy mess of them. His anxiety about being rude is replaced by shy nervousness, and he feels a gentle flush coming to his features, though he is confident... sort of... that the reddening in his cheeks can be blamed upon the growing sharpness of the wind.
His trepidation soothes completely when the stallion assures him his presence is not unwanted. Atlas bows his head in a subversive gesture, all at once feeling rather pathetic. "Ah," he says lamely, unsure of how else to start his speaking, "I know I frequently come here to quiet my thoughts. I simply did not want to complicate yours, should that be the case." No sooner were the words clear of his lips then he was mentally kicking himself. Everything he said sounded timorous, simple, and whingy. He let his eyes fall over the cliffside in hopes something interesting would materialize from the blackening sea, something to save this handsome stranger from the tedious experience of his company.
Asterion. It was an important name for an important individual, though Atlas had only seen the ruler from afar. The king's presence, however, always warmed Atlas, as he was a simple-looking being, but in the right light, it appeared as if the first stars of nightfall were painted on his coat.
The stranger's easy name drop of probably the most important horse in the region made Atlas even more nervous. Either his new acquaintance was one prepared to throw around big names to make himself sound significant-- and Atlas strongly doubted this was the case-- or he was, himself, actually a presence in Terrastella and the world of Novus as a whole. "I've never met the king," Atlas confided, again stupidly unaware of why he said it, "but then, I've not been in Terrastella long."
The distant splashing of the dolphin filled the quiet beat between his words and the strangers. You are always welcome here. The sentiment warmed him and picked his spirits up a bit. He lifted his head and returned the stranger's smile. "I've always felt that, in truth," he confides, feeling comforted. "The people of this land of Dusk have been nothing short of welcoming, even to a distant stranger, like me."
Atlas was feeling good, feeling like this evening may not be as socially stressful and doomed as he'd chalked it up to be when he first caught sight of the stranger on the hillock...
...then he went and introduced himself.
Rhone.
Atlas's eyes widened as he swallowed a noise of surprise. Of course. Of course.
Of course, he knew Rhone-- knew of him, at least. Atlas was a simple scribe, a broker of knowledge. He started with drafting bills of sale for items and goods for an auctioneer; occasionally he would be called upon to transcribe meetings between business owners. He frequented the marketplace, recording inventories or acting as a go-for for larger merchants. He was oft complimented on his penmanship.
It was not a small circle of individuals, the one he ran (or maybe drifted would be a better descriptor) in, but it was not terribly large, either; still, he knew anyone who hoped to get anything official, anything publishable, wanted Rhone's seal of approval.
Rhone, the Champion of Wisdom. Standing and welcoming him, an impoverished stranger, to the land where Rhone was the appointed scholarly lead.
Atlas wished he could wither and die.
Still, he was already here, already knee-deep in this encounter. He couldn't just pop the chute and bail now. "I-I'm Atlas," he managed with only the hint of a stutter. "It's an honor to meet you, my Lord." He wondered if he should bow.
"Atlas" | @Rhone | ofc this was at a point before we knew Asterion was Asteri-gone :c
09-05-2019, 01:36 PM
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Zombie [PM] Posts: 109 — Threads: 15 Signos: 650
Sometimes it was nice to be able to come up here and think, clear his head completely of all thoughts. And yet, Rhone could not pass up pleasant conversation. Very rarely did the presence of another actually irritate him. Tonight, however, was a good night to interrupt his thoughts. They were beginning to get away from him and traveling dangerously upon the very edge of being a hindrance to his current state of mind. Perhaps it could be said that the other stallion’s company was a god-send. Perhaps he should think Brighton the next time he goes to pray.
At the other stallion’s words, Rhone cannot help but shake his head ever so slightly, his lips pulling into a grin. He is even bold enough to chuckle lightly at the notion that the other is a hindrance. "Actually, your timing could not have been better. I needed a good distraction." He didn’t need to be thinking about what could have been but rather what could be. Perhaps this stallion’s presence was just what he needed to have a change of heart.
He tells the stranger that he and Asterion visit this cliff side often, and it was surprising that he had not stumbled across him. Rhone did not miss the nervousness that the other showed at the knowledge that he knew the king, rather knew him enough to say his name out loud. Was he not supposed to talk of a friend? "You should meet him. He is a kind individual, humble even." Rhone liked that Asterion had offered up an election of sorts, to give someone else the opportunity to rule. Rhone, like many others, thought the bay king was doing a fine job and he was not going to go against him. Don’t fix what’s not broken, right? He could have offered up his own name, having years of experience ruling two kingdoms. But then again, Rhone had not come to Novus to rule. In fact, he was not sure if anyone knew just how experienced he was in that matter.
But like this other stallion, Rhone too was relatively new as well. He did not know many that lived here and was not as well-traveled as some, but he had grown to love it here. "Like you, I have not been here long either. But the longer I am here, the more I fall in love with it’s beauty." Not only was the landscape beautiful, but so were the people in it. From what he had gathered, it was a quiet-natured region that had very little conflict. It was just what he needed in retirement.
He told the other that he was always welcomed here, that he (and subsequently Terrastella as a whole) was very welcoming. It seemed to warm the stranger and when he spoke, it brought a smile to Rhone’s lips. "I have found the same to be true myself. So many welcoming faces." Rhone had come from a land that was so vastly different from this one. He was so ordinary where others here were more vibrantly colored and had wings and horns and unnatural colors. When he first had arrived, it had been a huge culture shock. Thankfully, Rhone was adjusting well.
Rhone had taken a moment to introduce himself, to try to get on a first name basis with the one standing before him. Unfortunately (and surprisingly), the other knew of him and was a little uneasy being in his presence. Rhone sighed. He never wished to make people feel uncomfortable. He had only wanted to be friendly and welcoming. Perhaps if he had known that his innocent introduction would have been met with apprehension, he might have chosen not to introduce himself at all. Rhone hated making other feel uncomfortable. "It’s a pleasure to meet you Atlas. You do not have to be formal around me unless you feel like you need to. Think of me as a friend." He had never been into formalities, unless he was king. He had learned that sometimes, people needed to know your title to take you seriously. But his title here in Novus was nothing compared to that of a king. Rhone still thought of himself as just another humble Terrastellian.
