it’s not the destination so much as the journey " />
The Lost Islands
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Your King
Asmodeus
Your Queen
Nyimara
The Second
None
The Herd
Name, Name, Name
The Sub-Herd
Name, Name, Name
Allies
Name (Land)
Enemies
Solomon (Cove)
The Rules
  • There will be no fraternizing with enemies. If you put yourself knowingly in danger, don't expect a rescue.
  • We are only as strong as our weakest link. See to it that you are getting stronger in some skill that is useful, whether it is battling, recruiting, charming, etc.
  • The King and Queen have final say in all matters.
it’s not the destination so much as the journey
Posted on April 18, 2012 at 10:00:20 PM by DEBONAIRE



The only rules that really matter are these:
what a man can do and what a man can’t do.


There was something amiss.

He knew it when he and the fiery daughter of Razvan had parted company with the stallion - an inexplicable chill of premonition had crawled up his spine at the fading image of the roan stallion as the two had taken to the sea, to return to Atlantis together. Like a weathered seaman could sense the herald of a storm in the very winds, Debonaire sensed a calamity, a darkness that fell across the future's horizon like the dark clouds of a tempest rolling in.

To tear asunder the threads of his life again.

As soon as Neassa was safely upon the beach of Atlantis, the tawny stallion made his excuses - and his departure. With a fervent desperation previously unknown to him, he had plunged back into the water, his ebon limbs churning at the sea frantically as he headed for Salem. Copious amounts of seawater were inhaled in this struggle, but he disregarded the sting of salt in his lungs, and even the increased throbbing pain of his pastern as the injury was driven beyond the point of endurance, undoing all the healing time had bestowed. Perhaps he would not be too late.

Please, oh please, let him not be too late.

By the time his hooves made purchase on the shifting sands of Salem's desert, Debonaire hardly possessed the strength to stand. His barrel heaved with each pained breath as he struggled to support his weight across three limbs, putting minimal strain on the wounded hind - but his own suffering was driven from his mind almost immediately. The sight of wavering, zig-zagging furrows across the beach tormented his vision, leading from the shoreline into the desert. Whoever's strides had drawn these lines in the sand was evidently in agony, and not likely to make it far.

Razvan.

This certainty drove him doggedly onward, ignoring his own handicap as he sought out the painted stallion. Razvan had to be close. But each stride was a struggle, and the distance he traveled seemed endless - Debonaire was impressed with the strength of the stallion whom he had long admired, albeit silently. Razvan was the greater man, and did not deserve the story of suffering that was written in these sands. It was a tale Debonaire was all too familiar with, lines that echoed the agony of his own life - though his had been self-inflicted, and deserved.

Suddenly, the story ended.

Before him lie the motionless form of Razvan, sprawled across the sand. Though his eyes were closed, the buckskin knew what they would look like behind those lids - glassy and unseeing, devoid of memory and emotion. A smile twisted the man's otherwise haggard features - had he found peace in death, then? There would be no peace for those left behind. Sinking to his knees soundlessly, Debonaire suddenly feels as empty as this shell before him. He had sworn to himself to protect this family, to shelter the stallion and his kin from further sorrow.

He had failed.


Debonaire
gentleman || 7 years || buckskin || arabian mix || 15.2 hands
|| voiced by Reba ||



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