Force-claiming is allowed here once a week per character, as is blocking force-claims by the Peak/Lagoon (as a whole) once a week. Rollover is on Sundays.
| Shangri-La THE WILD HEART..................FINDS A HOME |
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Once upon a time, not so long ago, a young prince woke from a dream and opened his eyes, seeing for the first time things as they truly were… —— The trees were different here. Blinking open bright amber eyes, only to narrow them again, wincing at both the intensity of the sunlight and the stinging of saltwater, Shangri-La’s vision blurred, obscuring the palm fronds above him that waved in the wind coming off the sea until they were little more than shadows dancing overhead. Why did they dance so? The carefree manner in which they welcomed him ashore was reassuring, in a way. A far cry from the mighty sentinels that had dotted the mountain slopes that guarded the hidden entrance to the prosperous valley that had been destined to be his. —— He remembered fleeing along the twisted trail, flinging up snow in his haste. They had bristled their displeasure, and a shrill cry behind him had split the air. He ran, and dared not turn back. The trees had groaned, and a great roaring had filled his ears. Behind him, the trees had cracked and splintered. Torn themselves apart, aggrieved in the wake of his betrayal. Shangri-La had run himself ragged, right to the edge of the world that he had known. And, then he surrendered his emptied heart to the arms of the sea that beckoned him out to the deep, endless blue, begging it to carry him to a place where he might be free. —— Cautiously, as if he were uncertain that the sand under his striped hooves wouldn’t give way beneath him (or perhaps it was his own strength he was no longer certain of), the gold and white stallion unfurled his slender legs and rose to stand. Drawing in a breath to steady himself, Shangri-La turned to the east and looked over the land upon which the mid-morning sun shone favourably upon, despite its distance leaving a crispness to the air. A field of green-turning-gold stretched before him, the flat expanse of it beguiling. The grasses were different here too, rippling with a rhythm that reminded him of the ocean. With a flick of his tail, the foreign stallion approached, but a shadow to the north drew his attention. He pointed his muzzle (which was dusted a dark ashen colour that trailed the curve of his mane to caress the hard lines of his shoulder, as if in vain attempt to soften them) in that direction, and studied the mountain peak that rose, stoic in its solitude. A bittersweet sight it was, for it was comforting and familiar, but he would never catch sight of it and not be reminded of what he had left, and all that he had lost. With a gentle huff, the blanketed stallion turned away, and ventured a little further inland. His eyes no longer stung from the salt, but he tasted it still upon his lips, and wrinkling them, he aggravated a cut there that he had only vaguely been aware of. Twisting one ear in thought, he allowed himself this once to ponder over his plight. It had been one of the younger trees, not yet grown tall, whose limbs were yet thin and spry. He’d not seen it in time to avoid it entirely, but he had attempted to veer from it regardless. It had reached for him, the branch striking him in the mouth, but yielding to his passage. What lesson was there for him to find in this, he wondered, as he cast about for any scent of fresh water, amidst the myriad of horse-scents; male and female, young and mature, recent and fading. A reprimand for the flicker of weakness that had begged him to look back? A harsh reminder of his abandonment of his people that he’d see every time he caught sight of his reflection, in the form of a thin curved scar upon his maw. Maybe it meant to serve as little more than a consequence of momentarily losing sight of where he was, a gentler kind of lesson to remind him to watch his footing always. Perhaps it meant nothing at all. But Shangri-La was a kind all of his own, and while he did not actively seek portents and search for hidden meanings in things that did not hold mystery within them, he sought to learn from the things he observed, and heard, and experienced. So much was to be gained, and yet, it was a sad truth; much life had to offer was lost, because there appeared to be nothing of considerable worth to be gained. A sound and a scent carried to him by the wind had him turning, swinging his blanketed hindquarters with their dust-dark spots around so that he faced the oldcomer, the very first of many he would meet upon these strange, flattened little mountains that floated on the sea. “Wes hāl,” he offered mildly in greeting, relaxing his posture and inwardly debating whether or not to extend his muzzle to share breath, ever more painfully aware of his torn lip. He held back (but would shift to mirror the stranger’s movement if they initiated such contact), and momentary concern rippled across the warm amber of his eyes. It appeared the words he had spoken were either not significant to the stranger, else not understood entirely, and it made him uneasy. (How little he truly knew of the world beyond the one he’d left behind, and how he longed to learn - it burned within him like a fire.) Time would make it clear to him that recollections of the most mysterious and significant figure in his short life thus far - one that had served as his only connection to all that which lay beyond his valley kingdom - would not serve him as well as he had thought. So, with very little to guide him, and nothing substantial to hold to, Shangri-La flared his nostrils and wrinkled his lip, and in the renewed discomfort, he found a path to follow. “Please,” he beseeched, “water.” And tasting the salt-copped tang of blood once more, he waited, patient and hopeful. For the briefest of moments, while his dark-rimmed ears stood to attention, he allowed his gaze to roam, and he thought of that youngling tree for the last time, and wondered, ‘is this why?’ And then Shangri-La’s thoughts turned to water, and his eyes settled upon his eminent companion, glowing like embers with life and heat, promise and possibility. |