03-30-2021, 06:12 PM
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ultimum eques
the golden eyes
stoneguard
albino oriental
tags
the golden eyes
stoneguard
albino oriental
tags
[div style="max-width: 360px; font-family: georgia; color: #664b4a; text-align: left; padding-top: 8px; padding-left: 10px; letter-spacing: 1px; font-size: 12px;"]NEVER GETS ANY BETTER, ONLY GETS WORSE
Beneath the gentle strokes, those intermongingly hues of orange and cherry blossom that spin and weave a delicate veil among the fine threads of illumination, there is only silence. Too well known the break, the edge where brief the embrace night and day share, outward stretching the victor before the realisation may sour the moment. Few the flimsy wisps of cloud that obscure, little specks painted against the backdrop that holds them, futile such as on they must contintinue. Prolonged his study, muscle taunt and left aching for it, too long held a stance that cranes his neck, beauty drank in for none was found where he tread.
For only so long may he look, however, the cradle of the horizon allowing the sun to ascend, away falling as widened that once slim edge of golden light. Away eyes skirted, too grand even this for one too sensitive, closing in a squint. Hast in the downward pull, fabric once bound about the forehead, settled most comfortably at the mere base of lost ears, obscuring lavender depths. He knew too well that hidden, wide and open the land blanketed in poor growth, frostbitten remains slowly taken over as new growth roots in cracks. There is no beauty here, though he bore no need for it, satisfied with that above, a display he knew to continue at a glacial pace.
No choice was left to him as to which direction must be taken, that before, the winding unknown that worked into the river split valley of towering mountains the lulling hum of a siren. No, not quite. His desire simple, as all else was, a wish only for rest. Long ago the blood washed away, the battlefield abandoned, alone his path until the solitude choked him. Company what he wished for no matter the length of time it was offered, the disposition that may greet him secondary, voices that did not belong to the dead wished for.
Thus he must continue forth here where the lead way to the jutting peaks of a mountain pass seemed to dictate where the world ended, a solemn and silent guard over that edge. Childish the notion, such thought entertained only for the amusement of it and the ponderance of what may come next, a notion strange, perplexing further as it offered an odd comfort.
Difficult the supposedly simple task of keeping track of the time spent in motion, the distance never dwindling, unchanged the landscape viewed from beneath his covering. Wrong his decision, the chase of a hare beyond his reach, futile in all ways. The possilities too endless, a wide span of ideas for what may linger here, too grand the supposed prize to give in. Agony settled in old muscle, there a simmering heat that traced jagged paths of flame across the inner seam of his skin, laboured each breath. Death awaited him, that seemed a certainty now. To it he would go as though it were an old friend, former delivery boy as he was, too many given over in a pursuit he no longer recalled.
Postponed such meeting, however, his motion drawing to a halt, confusion arising across the scarred expanse of his visage. Remarkably fresh the hint he caught, pale nose twitching with each inhale. No delusion was this, proven true as a few steps drew him closer. A scent maker. It seemed it was not alone though the new near drowned out the old, his assumption proven correct. Breathless the laughter that bubbled forth, fell from the crooked twist of his lips. Still was there danger, a chance an encounter may conclude in his blood staining the stone, the thought did not enter his mind in that moment, instead fanned the spark of hope.
Understood the expected policies and so, with a few steps back to distance himself, Vincent settled upon his haunches. A terrible sight would he be for the hapless fool to first find him, scraggly and thin, broken his white coat by scar tissue that seemed more abundant than unmarred flesh. Comfortable was the rest of a sheath, and the dagger with which to fill it, against his side, rigid his posture. From this place he would not move, seemingly stone himself though the wind played through the strands of his coat, back and forth tail tip flicking, awaited an arrival of something uncaring of how he may be taken.
[/td][/tr][/table]For only so long may he look, however, the cradle of the horizon allowing the sun to ascend, away falling as widened that once slim edge of golden light. Away eyes skirted, too grand even this for one too sensitive, closing in a squint. Hast in the downward pull, fabric once bound about the forehead, settled most comfortably at the mere base of lost ears, obscuring lavender depths. He knew too well that hidden, wide and open the land blanketed in poor growth, frostbitten remains slowly taken over as new growth roots in cracks. There is no beauty here, though he bore no need for it, satisfied with that above, a display he knew to continue at a glacial pace.
No choice was left to him as to which direction must be taken, that before, the winding unknown that worked into the river split valley of towering mountains the lulling hum of a siren. No, not quite. His desire simple, as all else was, a wish only for rest. Long ago the blood washed away, the battlefield abandoned, alone his path until the solitude choked him. Company what he wished for no matter the length of time it was offered, the disposition that may greet him secondary, voices that did not belong to the dead wished for.
Thus he must continue forth here where the lead way to the jutting peaks of a mountain pass seemed to dictate where the world ended, a solemn and silent guard over that edge. Childish the notion, such thought entertained only for the amusement of it and the ponderance of what may come next, a notion strange, perplexing further as it offered an odd comfort.
Difficult the supposedly simple task of keeping track of the time spent in motion, the distance never dwindling, unchanged the landscape viewed from beneath his covering. Wrong his decision, the chase of a hare beyond his reach, futile in all ways. The possilities too endless, a wide span of ideas for what may linger here, too grand the supposed prize to give in. Agony settled in old muscle, there a simmering heat that traced jagged paths of flame across the inner seam of his skin, laboured each breath. Death awaited him, that seemed a certainty now. To it he would go as though it were an old friend, former delivery boy as he was, too many given over in a pursuit he no longer recalled.
Postponed such meeting, however, his motion drawing to a halt, confusion arising across the scarred expanse of his visage. Remarkably fresh the hint he caught, pale nose twitching with each inhale. No delusion was this, proven true as a few steps drew him closer. A scent maker. It seemed it was not alone though the new near drowned out the old, his assumption proven correct. Breathless the laughter that bubbled forth, fell from the crooked twist of his lips. Still was there danger, a chance an encounter may conclude in his blood staining the stone, the thought did not enter his mind in that moment, instead fanned the spark of hope.
Understood the expected policies and so, with a few steps back to distance himself, Vincent settled upon his haunches. A terrible sight would he be for the hapless fool to first find him, scraggly and thin, broken his white coat by scar tissue that seemed more abundant than unmarred flesh. Comfortable was the rest of a sheath, and the dagger with which to fill it, against his side, rigid his posture. From this place he would not move, seemingly stone himself though the wind played through the strands of his coat, back and forth tail tip flicking, awaited an arrival of something uncaring of how he may be taken.
© MADI
