Desreal: what you are; Saphira

He can’t stand it any longer. He must find her.

The Song pounds through his head, thrumming through his body in constant crescendo, nearly driving him insane with the intensity. The large roan stallion stands with his head hanging in the midst of the desert, eyes squeezed tightly against the raucous noise that reverberates through his brain. In the excruciating pain that inflicts him, thorns and brambles rise out of the dirt to crawl up his legs, sinking their thorns into his hocks before rising higher, and higher, encasing the stallion in a living, moving, roiling shell of vines and pinpricks of blood. They go unnoticed as he stands there, blooding seeping from various places in his coat, though it is the constant dribbling wound at his neck that has the most effect. He has held out against the temptation to go to her, but he does not defy it now. With sweat and blood patching his roan coat, the stallion breaks from his trance, tossing his mighty head and neck skyward, snapping the vines that try to bind him down. Eyes rolling, he thunders across the desert, green-flecked eyes glazed as he goes numb, his mind reaching out to the song as he pounds toward Desreal. It has been too long, and he is starved for her attention, for the closeness of the Shard. The blood seeps from the wound at his neck constantly, a tiny trickle today, slowly bubbling faster and faster as his pulse increases with his exertion. He must find her.

It does not take him long at his break neck speed to reach Desreal, and he slows then, large head swinging this way and that, searching for her. The Song is louder here, just like it was the last time, but it takes him longer to find her, his need too much for him to concentrate on just locating her. He scents her finally, breaking through a crush of deadfall with his massive chest, dark eyes searching the darkness before him. His Earth and Wind reach toward her like keening kittens, hungry for the shard that bound him to her. And he, the massive beast, follows their curling fingers like a docile pup, breath coming in pants as he makes his way toward her in the small clearing. He feels more at peace now, but his blood boils beneath his skin, aching for her to acknowledge his presence. The large muzzle touches her flank gently before skimming farther up her side as he moves himself to press against her, his larger bulk shadowing over his master, despite their closeness in height. He heaves a sigh of content, but knows deep down that she will not allow this familiarity. He has seen her with her grey dove, Alshain. Oh how he would love to kill the silver stallion, grind his skull beneath his hooves. He should be the one Saphira loves, him and none other. He had given her so much, helped her gain her power.

He deserves her love, he thinks, and would say as much if he knew it would get him anywhere.

“Saphira, milady, I have come because I could not be apart from you any longer. I have done as you asked, and have done well in it. I am still unranked, but soon enough I will rise with power to do you proud. I promise you.” The deep voice is different now, no longer calm, docile, almost lazy. No instead it is fervent, softer, a maniacal obsessed hiss as he seeks her approval, anything to show him that he has done right and that she cares for his devotion.

Unconsciously, deep emerald coloured vines curl up his hindquarters, reaching their prickly fingers toward Saphira as well, grappling for purchase on her hocks, pushing out buds that burst immediately into sapphire flowers as they touch her skin. But beneath each bud is a thorn that grows longer with each passing second, their ends becoming hooked barbs that lay dangerously close to her obsidian flesh. They do not dig themselves in, not yet, but it should be noted that the flowers wither quickly while the thorns remain intact.

centurion
earth III; air I
tainted