Born of graves
And Left below
And Left below
Long had it been since he had felt such painful soreness within his flesh and limbs(many millennia, if he was to include his slumber), and he found the feel of it rather against his liking. True, he perhaps could and undoubtedly would service as a warrior in times of need, but such violence, in hindsight, was foreign to him, while it was pleasing in sporadic doses, he knew without a doubt that the way of a soldier was no longer his. It was not the pain that confirmed this within his mind, it was not the outcome of the battle, nor whom he fought against. It was the lack of a presence beside him that made what he had once recalled as heart-poundingly terrifying and exhilarating into something.... hollow, just another charade for him to play through. It was the lack of a behemoth beside him, flanks brushing as they fought shoulder-to-shoulder, guarding the other should they falter and keeping what seemed like the world at bay.
Without that camaraderie, without him, battle seemed bleak and routine. In truth, without that stallion the world itself lacked vibrancy... or perhaps he was simply imagining such, though even the ever-burning flame of his vengeance simmered low in his heart, almost wholly spent. The fight upon the Steppe had drained him more than physically, and had awoken his eyes to yet another pain to pile upon his burden; heartbreak. In truth the black stag had never even had the time to mourn before he was slammed away into sleep beneath the earth, and he was resolute to stave off the grief that lurked in the wings like an actor for it's cue. He was afraid of it, of that pain that loomed, it was something wholly new and unfamiliar to him, and given his situation he feared new things with a dread he had never before tasted. It was an endless cycle, one he was doomed to, unless he could find his purpose and lock away the heartbreak and sorrow and forget where he had placed the key.
So the raven's eyes turned to Denocte, to the Night Court, to seek out his purpose therein. He had not heard much more of the Court than the barest snippets, for the reclusive location of the court proved to be a good deterrent against gossip. That in of itself called to the weary rook, the possibility of a secluded location to base his search in was a tantalizing morsel that had, invariably, decided his course of action when he teetered between Day and Night. He ignored the throbbing, pulsing ache of his semi-healed wounds, pushing himself into the easy gaited lope his breed had been created for, traveling onwards through the day, into the lands of Denocte, to the home of the Night Court.
His arrival was met with silence and twilight, the black stag's ebon coat blending fluidly with the growing dark, the gold of his rack dimmed by the dying hues of the sun. Only his white eyes flashed as he passed, their stark color still bold enough to be noticed in the growing night. Like a wraith he ghosted across the terrain, the soft roll of hooves and the single alarm call of a nightjar awoken too early by his presence the only signs of his passing. On he continued in that rolling lope, deeper into the Court lands, until the sun had set fully beyond the horizon, and only the dying moon graced the sky with it's weak light.
Only when he reached a clearing where the scent of heather and summer wildflowers filled the air did the raven pause, refined head swinging to look behind him, those haunting eyes almost seeming to glow in the weak moonlight. "I had expected thee to halt mine passage some time past." He called, baritone ringing with a stony flatness, broken only by the faint trails of amusement like wafting smoke. "Come out, thou hath been uncovered and known for some time." He was weary, he was sore, and he was out of practice, but he was not so great in any and all of those things to miss the signs of pursuit, no matter how cleverly hidden.
Without that camaraderie, without him, battle seemed bleak and routine. In truth, without that stallion the world itself lacked vibrancy... or perhaps he was simply imagining such, though even the ever-burning flame of his vengeance simmered low in his heart, almost wholly spent. The fight upon the Steppe had drained him more than physically, and had awoken his eyes to yet another pain to pile upon his burden; heartbreak. In truth the black stag had never even had the time to mourn before he was slammed away into sleep beneath the earth, and he was resolute to stave off the grief that lurked in the wings like an actor for it's cue. He was afraid of it, of that pain that loomed, it was something wholly new and unfamiliar to him, and given his situation he feared new things with a dread he had never before tasted. It was an endless cycle, one he was doomed to, unless he could find his purpose and lock away the heartbreak and sorrow and forget where he had placed the key.
So the raven's eyes turned to Denocte, to the Night Court, to seek out his purpose therein. He had not heard much more of the Court than the barest snippets, for the reclusive location of the court proved to be a good deterrent against gossip. That in of itself called to the weary rook, the possibility of a secluded location to base his search in was a tantalizing morsel that had, invariably, decided his course of action when he teetered between Day and Night. He ignored the throbbing, pulsing ache of his semi-healed wounds, pushing himself into the easy gaited lope his breed had been created for, traveling onwards through the day, into the lands of Denocte, to the home of the Night Court.
His arrival was met with silence and twilight, the black stag's ebon coat blending fluidly with the growing dark, the gold of his rack dimmed by the dying hues of the sun. Only his white eyes flashed as he passed, their stark color still bold enough to be noticed in the growing night. Like a wraith he ghosted across the terrain, the soft roll of hooves and the single alarm call of a nightjar awoken too early by his presence the only signs of his passing. On he continued in that rolling lope, deeper into the Court lands, until the sun had set fully beyond the horizon, and only the dying moon graced the sky with it's weak light.
Only when he reached a clearing where the scent of heather and summer wildflowers filled the air did the raven pause, refined head swinging to look behind him, those haunting eyes almost seeming to glow in the weak moonlight. "I had expected thee to halt mine passage some time past." He called, baritone ringing with a stony flatness, broken only by the faint trails of amusement like wafting smoke. "Come out, thou hath been uncovered and known for some time." He was weary, he was sore, and he was out of practice, but he was not so great in any and all of those things to miss the signs of pursuit, no matter how cleverly hidden.
SKELVOI
@Reichenbach - Hope you don't mind how i started this ;;
