Your support makes Blue Moon possible (Patreon)
loneiysong
Pulsar
- Joined
- Apr 13, 2012
He had been traveling the long lonely road. Every color was muted and dull. Food had lost its flavor. Nothing in the world could possibly bring him the joy he thought was his forever. Now, his joy was gone from this life, leaving him hopelessly, desperately alone. He was a knight. First class in his order. Right hand to the king himself. But he was never happy, he never partook of the festivities of the camp fire around him. He was always sitting in the shadows with his new war mare eating his ration for the night.
In the early spring of his life, he had met her. Beautiful and so very smart. Every night, she still danced across his dreams and held him close. Stroking his hair, whispering soft sweet nothings in his ear. She was the missing part of his soul. Shutting his eyes, he leaned his head down on his current perch outside of his tent. His soul was gone on in the other world, waiting to be reborn. He put his plate to the side partially untouched. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an apple. It was supposed to be his share, but he didn't want it and his new war mare had proven herself loyal in battle and was the closest thing to a friend he had now. The mare was still relatively new, but she almost predicted every slash, every move, everything. But that was just the preliminary sparring in which he tested her. Spars and war were two different things.
He wore only his simple tunic and cloth breeches. Walking to where he had seen his mare disappear, he looked around.
His name was Sir Brutus of the Celts of the hills. Brought down on the back of his mother, worked as a squire to Lord Thomas of the cross. He had the brawn of his people, but Thomas helped him develop teh brains that quickly won him favor of the court. Part of him pumped the blood of barbarians through his veins, but there was a refined part that was always his dear sweet flower. Plucked in ripeness. Too soon.
Too soon.
He braced his hand on his sword as he stumbled over a root sticking above the ground and raised his fingers to his lips and whistled.
Brutus was tall like a mountain and half as wide. All muscle. His arms bore the scars of countless battles. The battle on the same day that he had learned of his wife's demise, he had recieved a scar over his right eye. It hooked over his eyebrow, and down his cheek. His blue eyes were still untouched, but held the shadow of deep sadness. His mourning process of the Horse People of the hills, dictated he not cut or shave his beard until the burden of the loss was off of him. But he doubted it would ever be rid of him. Raising his fingers he whistled for the mare and looekd around raising his scarred eyebrow. Dark chocolate hair blew in the breeze as he raised his free hand and scratched his beard that covered a once smooth jaw.
"Silly Mare, probably off somewhere with a stallion." He sighed and looekd around. THe mare had been bread for Sir Brutus by a close friend who understood the importance and value of a good horse. He continued to wait.
In the early spring of his life, he had met her. Beautiful and so very smart. Every night, she still danced across his dreams and held him close. Stroking his hair, whispering soft sweet nothings in his ear. She was the missing part of his soul. Shutting his eyes, he leaned his head down on his current perch outside of his tent. His soul was gone on in the other world, waiting to be reborn. He put his plate to the side partially untouched. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out an apple. It was supposed to be his share, but he didn't want it and his new war mare had proven herself loyal in battle and was the closest thing to a friend he had now. The mare was still relatively new, but she almost predicted every slash, every move, everything. But that was just the preliminary sparring in which he tested her. Spars and war were two different things.
He wore only his simple tunic and cloth breeches. Walking to where he had seen his mare disappear, he looked around.
His name was Sir Brutus of the Celts of the hills. Brought down on the back of his mother, worked as a squire to Lord Thomas of the cross. He had the brawn of his people, but Thomas helped him develop teh brains that quickly won him favor of the court. Part of him pumped the blood of barbarians through his veins, but there was a refined part that was always his dear sweet flower. Plucked in ripeness. Too soon.
Too soon.
He braced his hand on his sword as he stumbled over a root sticking above the ground and raised his fingers to his lips and whistled.
Brutus was tall like a mountain and half as wide. All muscle. His arms bore the scars of countless battles. The battle on the same day that he had learned of his wife's demise, he had recieved a scar over his right eye. It hooked over his eyebrow, and down his cheek. His blue eyes were still untouched, but held the shadow of deep sadness. His mourning process of the Horse People of the hills, dictated he not cut or shave his beard until the burden of the loss was off of him. But he doubted it would ever be rid of him. Raising his fingers he whistled for the mare and looekd around raising his scarred eyebrow. Dark chocolate hair blew in the breeze as he raised his free hand and scratched his beard that covered a once smooth jaw.
"Silly Mare, probably off somewhere with a stallion." He sighed and looekd around. THe mare had been bread for Sir Brutus by a close friend who understood the importance and value of a good horse. He continued to wait.
