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+--- Thread: Dragoncrest Cliffs they say war is hell (/showthread.php?tid=42209)
they say war is hell - Ikutur - June 25, 2020
following the serpentine twist of the coast; ikutur's steps pound out a staccato against the shifting sands as it melds into solid earth; each step like the thrum of a war drum. the young tundrian knows little and acknowledges little else. prowess, strength ...they are defining features. lessons taught from the cradle of his stoic and stalwart mother's womb. stories of battles, of conquerors lulled him to sleep and he rose with spars in the mornings. dispersal gave him too much time to think; focus split between where he was going and why, and tending to his own survival. a pause in steps is given, a bow of head to snuffle at the earth beneath his feet, a keen glimpse given at the cliffs that drop treacherously into the churning waves below: unfathomable blue and the white frothy break of waves. ikutur turns away from the cliff, pressing forth towards the heart of the territory where emerald knolls give way to shade of woodland.
RE: they say war is hell - Hela - June 26, 2020
an ache, deep-set and throbbing, nestles along the back of her skull. the once-warlord rolls her shoulders in attempt to dislodge it, and yet can only derive a moment of relief before it takes hold once more. the distant boom of wave against unyielding rock is in tandem with the throbbing pain, and yet she is drawn toward the sound. there is attractiveness in these rough-hewn places at the edge of the world she may travel, and those that frequent them.
it is when the woodland she travels grows thin that she happens upon the tundrian. slowing, she offers a low call, gaze turned on him, appraising, waiting to see how her presence might be received. solitude had made such meetings more prevalent than she'd like, and yet she'd found they might, rarely, be useful.
RE: they say war is hell - Ikutur - June 27, 2020
what the merihirviö searches for continuously eludes him. he chases it like as if he were a stormchaser chasing a storm, feeling the electricity against his tongue, the heavy humidity in the air only for it to vanish like smoke when he draws just close enough to sink teeth to it. it should not surprise him. the man that sired him was ...little more than a figment of imagination to him: a legend; upon the lips of many but unseen and unknown by ikutur. he supposes his departure and absence from ikutur's life before he even drew first breaths of the damp putrid earth of the birthing den was inevitable. in all her stoicness, his mother was quick to admit she hadn't really known him. the one they called wintersbane.
this place he hails from, though, is real.
perhaps there was disappointing truth yet to be learned.
the low call draws ikutur's tempest blue-grey gaze from the beguiling shadows of the nearing woodlands to the young woman draped in a cloak of charcoal, ash and umber. she is tall and powerful, physically, this much he can tell even from the distance that exists between them. though his initial regard of her is blasé, his interest is irrefutably piqued.
yes? the sway of his tail coupling with the shift of his head inquires for him, inviting her to speak or come nearer — whichever she prefers.