TheWanderer
The grey of the plumes was mottled, heavy and thick with roiling sun-blot. The heat, unbearable earlier, had simmered enough to be traversable--though with no small measure of misery--and though the footpath was overrun with debris, the going was steady and clear.
Her steps crunched sharply through the clearing, the sound cut short by the oppressive ashen ceiling. In the uneven light, the slate skittering out from under her boots looked almost like a shifting river. If only they could be so lucky.
Bending carefully, she slipped a finger beneath a shard. Its surface was, for all she wished it weren't, beautiful--smooth-grained, sleekly patterned, reminiscent of the carved patios of the town four miles south. Its edge was sharp.
She rose to her full height, taking the piece with her, and surveyed the blackened borders of the crippled forest. With time, and care, they would recover.
It shouldn't be a surprise that it's the most common favorite color. Sky, sea, flowers, jewels--soothing, easy, comfortable, sorrowful. Endless associations, countless moods it can portray. Easily one of the most versatile colors, able to look good beside almost any other hue. No matter who you are, there is something beloved you can think of in your life that is a shade of blue. The waves that break on the shores of the glittering lake you remember visiting as a kid, the tile of the bathroom in your home that you've lived in for years, the crinkled, smiling eyes of a loved one. Blue may not be my favorite color, but it is the color of many of my favorite things, and a cherished hue I'm thankful to witness so regularly.
It's not that he'd never considered it.
Really, it'd been a desire of his for many years of his adulthood. The yearning to care, to raise, to protect--it'd settled into him early and never left. It had only escalated in recent years, after his brother had made his announcement. There was a point to which it frightened him--how easy it would be to mess it all up.
And yet, being faced with it now, looking down at the twisted expression of fresh, blood-smeared skin and new life, he found he couldn't feel anything but vast, unknowable, depthless love.
normally id write something cute but im mega tired so im here to tell yall to go play monster hunter stories 3. i loved the first two and this one isn't perfect but it's a lot of fun so far. capcom my beloved monster hunter my beloved. if this prompt is still up when i wake up later tonight i'll make a legit post hehe
This far in, not much moved beside the shimmering heat haze. The dunes were too unsteady, too tall, too barren to host life beyond the occasional lizard or passing bird. The sun blazed down from the cloudless sky, silent and burning, and the horizon grew only fuzzier the longer she tried to look at it. It was a sort of hostile serenity.
Her cart creaked as it slid across the sand. The broad, smooth runners kept it moving, but keeping it steady and upright was up to her--and soon her sister, whose sleeping snout was barely visible above the cluttered edge of the inner shelf. In an hour or two, her time would be up, and they'd swap off; for now, the responsibility was hers.
It had been a profitable run, this month. Boxes and shelves laden with trinkets, clothes and fine jewelry hanging from hooks, piles of trinkets shoved against the wooden walls. Acutely, she was glad for her magic, lightening the burden of the harness already digging into her fine scales. Any more weight, and they'd have needed to take an extra day between trips, lengthening the journey home even further. As much as they loved the road, there was nothing quite like curling up on a patch of sun-soaked stone and napping beside the hot springs with a talon or tailtip drifting in the steaming pools.
Clio smiled at the memory, eyes trailing up into the unending blue from beneath her hooded shawl. Her sister grunted softly from within the wagon. She didn't have much, not truly. But she did have. And like the lizards that skittered across the desert, it was enough.
"You have HOW many gold pieces on you?!"
Mer blinked down at her. "Is that...unusual?"
"Unu-Mer, are you an *actual* dragon? You're walking around with a small hoard in your pocket! How is that not heavy? What if you get pickpocketed?"
"I assure you, my compatriot, the weight is negligible. And if an attempt were made to do as such, I would take notice."
Vespa quirked a brow at the dragonborn beneath her hood, a faint smirk crossing her face. The expensive-looking sack jingled and clattered as she tossed it up before the white snout, caught it, brandished it before surprised golden slits. "You sure about that?"
Perhaps the sense of restriction I feel when I wear a long sleeve isn't unique. I've known this. No one singular experience can ever be truly unique, with the vastness of humanity that have walked the earth before me. But that doesn't really mean much when you find yourself an anomaly amongst the common folk of your life. Made for tugging on by a young child, for warming the flesh, for decorating the human shape, for protecting the limbs--and yet all I feel is discomfort and unease at the scratch of fabric against the gooseflesh, at the tug of the seam beneath my armpit, two sizes too big the only tolerable state of it. Sensations, maybe, are given a little too much import in my life.
It's laughable, at times, the way I like to think I have them all. Ego is a powerful force, driving stakes into speech that could have been kind but instead becomes condescending. Problems caused, issues unresolved despite knowing the solution, choosing to walk away from what's right because it would mean acknowledging my own foolishness and flaws, the ones that I bank my identity on not having. It doesn't matter that I know I know how to improve. What's the point of facing something new when you could shut yourself to the path forward and stay in what you know, what you think you know, because at least you're familiar with it? People let down, opportunities missed, tasks delayed, work incomplete, finances strained, growth and progress ignored and yet still yearned for--all because I think I have all the answers.
I missed this.
It's all I can think as I stare up at the streaking brilliance of purples, oranges, yellows, pinks. The cold didn't matter. The last wisps of precipitation didn't matter. The wind, for once, felt exhilarating instead of biting. The glowing sunlit edges of the clouds overhead were almost blinding. The red sunrise was beautiful.
I missed this.
Sometimes, the days he faced were simple, easy. He'd rise, spend his time as he needed, speak easily with those around him, pass peacefully into slumber without tension or thought. Other days, his teeth were aching when he finally hit the mattress, body afloat and untethered in that detached sort of way that felt like dread but lacked the urgency. It was difficult, after those days, to find the will to rise the next morning. Fear of what might come again, had come again, would with certainty one day come again.
But then it wasn't always. Again, yes, but...never always. Never without a glimpse of those easy, common days. And as the sun peered through his shoddy blinds, casting a curious beam across his pillow, highlighting the creases in his fingertips and striping the wrist he raised to its touch, he found he could breathe in its faint, early warmth.
What awaited him didn't matter, at the end of it. There was always another day. He could trust that much.
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