Gilded Lion
12-04-2016, 09:55 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-04-2016, 10:00 PM by Arborick.)
It is all the same, only different. Here, there, they all felt the sting of Winter. Ice would overrun like a pestilence, bowing grasses and flora alike until everything fell to a quiet submission; and in there glacial prison would remain until the sweet release of Spring. The marshlands were no exception, succumbing to the winds of Winter and appearing like every other snow laden scape. Ice laced across shallow pools, climbing up the stalks of vegetation that grew from it, even clinging to rocks that jut from the wet lands. This morning was incredibly silent; it was much to early to bear a shadow, the suns form hadn't even peeked over the horizon. A wet chill hung in the air, bitter enough to slow your breath, bitter enough to show it. Through twin nares, mist expelled into the dark sky with a brief huff, vanishing as quickly as it left his body. He was heavy set, marked in hues of timber and black, clad in tendrils thick as wool, and a singular pinna stood erect atop his blunt skull. A stranger to these lands no doubt, his uncertain pace was proof enough as he deftly picked his way around the thin sheets of ice. For a cumbersome fellow he maneuvered swiftly, the only clamor being silver talons that hung from each large digit clacking rhythmically against the frozen ground. Eventually he breached a solitary willow that sat on a ever so slight incline, a refuge from the icy pools. His immense form met the ground with a crunch as he reclined, his beefy shoulder locked against the trees base in support. Now there was nothing more to do than observe the suns ascension. Slowly, pastoral colors spread like ink from the equator, breaking the obscurity with a bright radiance. Drowsy chocolate irises simply witnessed in awe - morning was truly the best time of day. |