Their shadows lengthened and followed them like augurs from a dark parallel world.
From time to time the former princekin turned his head to look back at their shadows, indigo italic arabesques on the stubbled ground.
The cooling sky was a salve on his eyes after the sandstorm on the butte. When they upon the plain with its many lakes, he looked to the dark highwayman,
@Colt, as if offering him the first drink. It only felt right.
The many lakes glittered in the dusk like the floor of a fountain filled with coins.
Lynx only drank after the highwayman did, with watchful eyes on his swart features. Their stomaches sagged with water.
Where he went, Lynx followed. He entertained the thought of pissing into one of the pools, something that made him smile vague and soft into his shoulder.
Back in the vaunted halls of Myros, handservants would bring him drinking water from the mountains - sweet and cold as if gathered from mythic Pirene, the watering-hole of Pegasus.
But he could not piss into the fountains of Pirene.
cameo, please skip
more and more did the savages march upon her land like toy figurines. their numbers grew, as did her fury.
they came in waves, crashing like ripples on the coast. they invaded, their stench foreign, their purpose unclear.
she did not like the slobbering mongrels and their corrupt cores. they had come for a reason, and she did not believe it to be of righteous intention.
far off she watched with a fire burning behind wild eyes. it was but a spark that would soon grow into blazing inferno.
Colt Briggs spoke again in the strange and boneless language, but the wry twist of his voice made Lynx smile as well, bemused, his smile subtle as the curve of a spoon.
But they set out with intention that went beyond language - their volition trod a path before them and revealed much about the world. Their nostrils flared as they took in the hot air and as their brains parsed it without thinking, old wolf-scent there and fresh rabbit droppings here, a breeze blowing northeast, all of this and more slipping into the unconscious.
Dark figures of mallards sat on the silver surface of the lake, their heads shining bottle green in the heady light.
Pápies,
he pointed out, almost to himself. One spread its wings for a moment, flashing blue speculums. When was the last time he had to hunt for himself?