Post by Shhasow on Dec 10, 2011 6:09:52 GMT 10
To: Kris11,
Message: I saw this prompt and I had to do it - I have a not-so-secret love for our favorite immortals. I hope you enjoy!
Title: Moonbright
Rating: PG
Word Count: 562
Wishlist Item: #2 - A Stormwing flock with one of their rare young
Summary: A rare event in the life of a Stormwing flock.
The forest is nearly silent.
The wind has died away hours ago; the few wildife that call the forest their home have long since retired to their holes and herds, for even immortals feel Gainel’s dark embrace and even gods pretend.
As if the denizens of the wood and the chirpy dancing wind gods hold their breath, the only sound that echoes dimly is the sound of pain hissing out from closed lips.
There are other senses; the wizened old many-great grandmother can taste the bold vivid anticipation, the sour anxiety, the musky determination from the one in physical pain and the ones denying their emotional struggles. Death occurs far too often in such an event as this, and the sweet cloying stench of hope clings lighter and more uneasily than the beads of sweat that trickle down faces.
Of course, none of them are quite positive whether such things are smelled or tasted, odors or flavors. The two are tightly intertwined, but smell lends yet another perception; the gathered group emit a metallic tang that hangs undisturbed in the air. It smells of new blood, in part, and of death, for even immortals may die.
A slight crack; one of them splinters the bark underneath his talons. Others turn swiftly to glare, to remonstrate, and the offender flexes his claws to dig in defiantly. These are minor sensations of touch and feeling; the one at the heart of the gathering feels greater and deeper the sharp slice and stab of internal knives.
Then there is sight, for the old moon reflects enough light to catch the hard eyes and metal wings of the group. They are moonbrightened and reflect menacingly, or perhaps they might to an outsider, but to the storm wing seeking support of her clan, they exude love.
It has been nearly a full revelation of the moon since the birth-pangs began. What began in the dark will end the same, and no one is certain if the mother will live to see another sun. For those who have never-ending life, the bringing forth of new life is esteemed highly, living afterwards is revered.
The oldest member of the clan, the one who still remembers life before the Great Barrier, is such a stormwing. Idra Sureflight, half-blind, half-deaf, her other senses compensate, including the slightest touch of premonition.
As the mother struggles and holds back her cries as the child inside of her fights out, as the father leans closer to encourage with his presence and his sorrow, Idra nods in satisfaction.
When the young stormwing - a boy - takes his first breath of divine air and pierces the forest with a screeching cry, few are surprised except by the strength of the bawl. Many new children are born successfully after all, but the confirmation of his vitality is a relief.
As Mithros begins to stretch his long fingers over the horizon and allocate warmth from the Gift of Mother Univerise, another cry echoes in the air. Not one of pain, as first, or confusion at an unceremonied arrival, but one of joy.
The mother opens her eyes, and though her flesh is rended and her face streaked with red, she continues to breathe as the new father takes flight, crowing in the unexpected gift of double life.
Idra is the only one not surprised, and she slowly extends a forefeather towards the red-faced infant with malleable metal wings. “He will be great,” she croaks, “Very important, a leader. A prophet to lead us all.
“His name will be Rikash.”
Message: I saw this prompt and I had to do it - I have a not-so-secret love for our favorite immortals. I hope you enjoy!
Title: Moonbright
Rating: PG
Word Count: 562
Wishlist Item: #2 - A Stormwing flock with one of their rare young
Summary: A rare event in the life of a Stormwing flock.
The forest is nearly silent.
The wind has died away hours ago; the few wildife that call the forest their home have long since retired to their holes and herds, for even immortals feel Gainel’s dark embrace and even gods pretend.
As if the denizens of the wood and the chirpy dancing wind gods hold their breath, the only sound that echoes dimly is the sound of pain hissing out from closed lips.
There are other senses; the wizened old many-great grandmother can taste the bold vivid anticipation, the sour anxiety, the musky determination from the one in physical pain and the ones denying their emotional struggles. Death occurs far too often in such an event as this, and the sweet cloying stench of hope clings lighter and more uneasily than the beads of sweat that trickle down faces.
Of course, none of them are quite positive whether such things are smelled or tasted, odors or flavors. The two are tightly intertwined, but smell lends yet another perception; the gathered group emit a metallic tang that hangs undisturbed in the air. It smells of new blood, in part, and of death, for even immortals may die.
A slight crack; one of them splinters the bark underneath his talons. Others turn swiftly to glare, to remonstrate, and the offender flexes his claws to dig in defiantly. These are minor sensations of touch and feeling; the one at the heart of the gathering feels greater and deeper the sharp slice and stab of internal knives.
Then there is sight, for the old moon reflects enough light to catch the hard eyes and metal wings of the group. They are moonbrightened and reflect menacingly, or perhaps they might to an outsider, but to the storm wing seeking support of her clan, they exude love.
It has been nearly a full revelation of the moon since the birth-pangs began. What began in the dark will end the same, and no one is certain if the mother will live to see another sun. For those who have never-ending life, the bringing forth of new life is esteemed highly, living afterwards is revered.
The oldest member of the clan, the one who still remembers life before the Great Barrier, is such a stormwing. Idra Sureflight, half-blind, half-deaf, her other senses compensate, including the slightest touch of premonition.
As the mother struggles and holds back her cries as the child inside of her fights out, as the father leans closer to encourage with his presence and his sorrow, Idra nods in satisfaction.
When the young stormwing - a boy - takes his first breath of divine air and pierces the forest with a screeching cry, few are surprised except by the strength of the bawl. Many new children are born successfully after all, but the confirmation of his vitality is a relief.
As Mithros begins to stretch his long fingers over the horizon and allocate warmth from the Gift of Mother Univerise, another cry echoes in the air. Not one of pain, as first, or confusion at an unceremonied arrival, but one of joy.
The mother opens her eyes, and though her flesh is rended and her face streaked with red, she continues to breathe as the new father takes flight, crowing in the unexpected gift of double life.
Idra is the only one not surprised, and she slowly extends a forefeather towards the red-faced infant with malleable metal wings. “He will be great,” she croaks, “Very important, a leader. A prophet to lead us all.
“His name will be Rikash.”