THE TANKLIKE SON OF IFRIT & EVERLYSE
[ male - six years - 31 inches, 130 pounds - no imprint - no mate - asteraia ]
He was in the early years of his prime, certainly not close to his peak and certainly still maintaining the luster of youth. Not that he was especially spry looking, because in point of fact… he looked more like a rooted tree than a spring-mad stag. He was thick, powerful, sturdy… Not massive, not big as his grandfather had been. No, he had the might of Siegos and the size of Asthore, that was certain.
A part of him wishes he could brag of his mother’s side too, but she had been gone so long.
He rolls over the hills of Asteraia and out towards the fields of Ruieze now, hoping to find something more than his recent pledge of fealty to a new king - a king that now ruled the home of his birth, or at least home as he saw it. Perhaps he craved something more like what his own brother had recently acquired, maybe... though he dreaded imprinting as much as it made his nerves tingle with anticipation. No. He certainly thought he’d prefer something softer, something kinder, something coaxing like a gentling hand.
Maybe what he needed was that indeterminate thing that all who are lost are searching for - and that they will not identify till they step right into the muck of it. Yes, he has been lost for quite some time. Four years of nothing, no vow offered, no fealty owed, no life to live beyond the day to day grind and survival’s “tender” mercies.
His flame-licked gaze scours across the expanse before him, the white of his body perhaps easily mistaken for snow that survived the recent battering sun of spring. At least, that is, if they did not see the golden splashes on his muzzle, face, and fur behind his smoothed hackles. Like a small, white, bear - or perhaps a throwback to dire wolves of old - he lumbers steadily and smoothly in a gait that mimicked the slow, intense confidence of beasts twice his size. His big paws, his thick neck, his stocky legs, his broad muzzle… they point and take him straight for the water.
Water guarded by a delightful sight indeed.
She is glorious in the light, so beautiful with the ripple of water-glare shining across red and white fur. Like some nixie, some fresh water nymph laid and at peace in some secret hour of rest. His eyes can see her age, that she sometimes adjusts in aching bones or muscles, but his mind sees only that it does nothing to ruin the wonder of her shaping. Knights, he thinks, must have come to beg her blessings, she must have brought them enchanted swords and borne their bodies away into the depths of her watery home so that they might rise again when the earth was ready for their return.
"Miss, may I share the sunshine with you," he asks, sounding just a little breathless. "Or if not the sun’s own light, let me bask in yours."
Oh yes, he was of the Red Baron’s lineage.
|
|
