27th of Spring, 512 A.V.
The stars sparkled brightly within the confines of the sky, the cloudless expanse of black glittering so beautifully that it easily stole one’s breath away. Creature and human alike basked in his ethereal glow, the moon shining wane rays upon his child Earth until Mizahar was nothing less than exquisite. The crickets of the night sang morosely in their loneliness, erupting the fields of the Unforgiving into a cacophony of noise that somehow passed off as music. It was soothing to nature; the high-pitch notes a reminder of each cleansing night that swept over them like a warm blanket until the next day. Yes, the earth hibernated under the moon’s watchful gaze as she readied herself for the arrival of Syna in the morning.
Unfortunately, within the claustrophobic confines of Mount Skyinarta, the Inarta did not witness such beauty. The songs of the crickets were smothered by the echoing calls of monstrous birds, while the peeking light of Leth struggled to brighten the darkest depths of the volcano. Like the ignorance living in a mountain creates, the Inarta did not know of the artistry beyond their walls and were merely satisfied by their monochromatic living. A world wrapped purely around ethnocentrism, Wind Reach was a city of conservative and old ways where man forgot to question why each action occurred, but was content enough to assume it must be.
Questions are for the socialists, after all.
Letting out a sigh, a sleek figure collapsed upon a bench; his legs bending unceremoniously beneath him while his bum hit the stone settee with merely a bounce. It’s late into the night; he notes quietly, his head tilting back against the wall as he closes his eyes. Even as the dark danced through the cavern, celebrations of life were still occurring all around him. The reintroduction of spring had brought hope back into his people, the threat of famine and death long behind them. As the trees began to blossom and the prey they figured was long dead begun to emerge, the Inarta once again found celebration in the beauty of life.
Wingard, however, felt like he was a different story. Resting his arms upon the top of the bench, the young man wondered how one that has grown up in such a culture can feel so isolated and segregated from it. He understood the value of spring and the relief that such a season brings, but the russet haired man found it hard to dreg up enough excitement to actually celebrate it. Although the season signaled the end to winter, it also signaled the rebirth of the cycle and an eminent winter to come. Life was nothing but a cycle; full of ups and downs, lefts and rights. It seemed utterly pointless to celebrate one simple aspect of it while turning a blind eye to what was obviously coming in the future.
But that was the way of the Inarta. Considering how short their life spans were, it really shouldn’t have been surprising to the Kelvic that they preferred to ‘live in the moment.’ Wingard let out a sigh as he opened his eyes blearily to stare out of the gaping hole of their volcano. It was incredibly obvious to the young man that he seemed out of place here, but what was he to do? His colony - his Eagles – resided within the mountain and although he yearned for an adventure, a campaign for knowledge, he knew that such a trip was not possible. This unfortunate reality festered at his mind, creating a bitterness towards his situation that the young Kelvic could not begin to describe or show to others. Thus, he isolated himself away, hoarding his dreams close to his chest without speaking them out loud, hoping that by not voicing them, he could ignore their existence.
It was a futile endeavour; each moment he soared above the Unforgiving, watching as the land and sky met at the horizon, signifying a world beyond his eyesight and understanding, did Wingard feel at loss. Out there, lay multitudes of knowledge that he would never grasp between his fingers, nor set a hungry gaze upon. Watching as the stars twinkled invitingly; the rapture rolled his shoulders, allowing the sounds of celebration to fade behind him as he stared out into the open skies, dreaming of a life that could never be.
The stars sparkled brightly within the confines of the sky, the cloudless expanse of black glittering so beautifully that it easily stole one’s breath away. Creature and human alike basked in his ethereal glow, the moon shining wane rays upon his child Earth until Mizahar was nothing less than exquisite. The crickets of the night sang morosely in their loneliness, erupting the fields of the Unforgiving into a cacophony of noise that somehow passed off as music. It was soothing to nature; the high-pitch notes a reminder of each cleansing night that swept over them like a warm blanket until the next day. Yes, the earth hibernated under the moon’s watchful gaze as she readied herself for the arrival of Syna in the morning.
Unfortunately, within the claustrophobic confines of Mount Skyinarta, the Inarta did not witness such beauty. The songs of the crickets were smothered by the echoing calls of monstrous birds, while the peeking light of Leth struggled to brighten the darkest depths of the volcano. Like the ignorance living in a mountain creates, the Inarta did not know of the artistry beyond their walls and were merely satisfied by their monochromatic living. A world wrapped purely around ethnocentrism, Wind Reach was a city of conservative and old ways where man forgot to question why each action occurred, but was content enough to assume it must be.
Questions are for the socialists, after all.
Letting out a sigh, a sleek figure collapsed upon a bench; his legs bending unceremoniously beneath him while his bum hit the stone settee with merely a bounce. It’s late into the night; he notes quietly, his head tilting back against the wall as he closes his eyes. Even as the dark danced through the cavern, celebrations of life were still occurring all around him. The reintroduction of spring had brought hope back into his people, the threat of famine and death long behind them. As the trees began to blossom and the prey they figured was long dead begun to emerge, the Inarta once again found celebration in the beauty of life.
Wingard, however, felt like he was a different story. Resting his arms upon the top of the bench, the young man wondered how one that has grown up in such a culture can feel so isolated and segregated from it. He understood the value of spring and the relief that such a season brings, but the russet haired man found it hard to dreg up enough excitement to actually celebrate it. Although the season signaled the end to winter, it also signaled the rebirth of the cycle and an eminent winter to come. Life was nothing but a cycle; full of ups and downs, lefts and rights. It seemed utterly pointless to celebrate one simple aspect of it while turning a blind eye to what was obviously coming in the future.
But that was the way of the Inarta. Considering how short their life spans were, it really shouldn’t have been surprising to the Kelvic that they preferred to ‘live in the moment.’ Wingard let out a sigh as he opened his eyes blearily to stare out of the gaping hole of their volcano. It was incredibly obvious to the young man that he seemed out of place here, but what was he to do? His colony - his Eagles – resided within the mountain and although he yearned for an adventure, a campaign for knowledge, he knew that such a trip was not possible. This unfortunate reality festered at his mind, creating a bitterness towards his situation that the young Kelvic could not begin to describe or show to others. Thus, he isolated himself away, hoarding his dreams close to his chest without speaking them out loud, hoping that by not voicing them, he could ignore their existence.
It was a futile endeavour; each moment he soared above the Unforgiving, watching as the land and sky met at the horizon, signifying a world beyond his eyesight and understanding, did Wingard feel at loss. Out there, lay multitudes of knowledge that he would never grasp between his fingers, nor set a hungry gaze upon. Watching as the stars twinkled invitingly; the rapture rolled his shoulders, allowing the sounds of celebration to fade behind him as he stared out into the open skies, dreaming of a life that could never be.
