He is sick of the rain, sick of the endless stream of water pouring from the heavens. Well, perhaps not quite endless, but unceasing in the minds of those who must suffer it day after day. Brighton’s earth, unable to keep up with Courant’s fervor, lies silently beneath a covering of water. In essence, it feels like the end of the world. The splashed brute moves quietly forward, head slung low, ears pinned to his skull in an effort to keep the water out. Water runs in rivulets from his soaked topline, gathering with it dirt and dead skin, only to fall and join the stagnant water below. His white fur is now muddied, the debris now at the surface, the pink skin revealed beneath his soaked pelt. He pauses, gaze rolling about his surroundings, caution clearly evident. The steadily falling rain did well in muffling his passage, and if it did so for him, it no doubt will do the same for any other. Satisfied that he is alone, he continues on, his destination the Temple of Paduan. Though a resident of Hoof Prince for several seasons, Taboo had had yet to visit the fire deity’s temple. It was not out of disrespect, though he knows that it can and may be construed as such. Rather, it was out of a sign of respect. He had been young and untried upon his arrival here. Now he was a seasoned battler, a level four flamebearer, and a member of Paduan’s Rajputs. Of course, that was before the land had shifted, devouring his volcanic home, replacing it and the Valkyrie’s jungle with Scythia.
Muscle flows over bone in fluid motion, nasal passages gathering to him the faint smell of fire and char. A smile curves his black lips, amber eyes alight with intrigue as they gaze upon the realm of Paduan. It is almost as if he has passed into a cavern; the rain stops, held at bay by its natural foe. A satisfied sigh expresses itself, his bulk rolling in an effort to shake the water from his heavy, soaked pelt. Eyes peer about the desolate place, deafening silence roaring in his ears. The ruby glows in frantic anticipation, warmed in the presence of its creator. His breathing comes quietly, ribcage rising and falling steadily, his tail hung limp, dripping. Beneath him is ash, the light substance puffing upwards with each shift of his weight, clinging to his wet hooves. Lukewarm flames ribbon themselves about his frame, effectively drying his hide, though why he wastes his energy is beyond even him. He will just be soaked once again in his return to Scythia. In true form, he stands in silence, tongue held until he is sure he hold’s the god’s attention.
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