Deep in the wild's Valen did Ryiek's willowy frame pay grace. Palms uplifted, lips turned in gratitude, he pranced with each limber step; pallid lurch and trickling tumble tossed him to and fro, laughter cooing from his throat. Deigned a merry tenor, it ensconced the wide canopy of trees, stirring brush and leaf as he hopped from sun kissed shadows. Crowned in whimsy and delight he struck feet to soil. Sauntered a dauntless cascade. It was no pleasant sound.
The bob of a head, an openmouthed grin. His throat twisted and clenched, releasing a dissonant trill. The day drew young before him, and in it, he found freedom. Wrists light, ankles unfettered, shoulders loose and absent the cords of a tension so often found in the mundane.
Ryiek, swathed in raw silks and a regalia of hide, crooked a finger to the sky. Bade it welcome. Energy cracked the corners of his eyes. Green, effervescent when set upon by the sun's peerless rays. Pulsing, thrumming, the hum and canter broke cadence. A cackling cacophony that coursed the blue of his veins; lightning answered his call.
Purple and red and gold slated hues sundered the air. As a rod, his raised finger collected the energy, scintillating with power. In subliminal space, suspended through all iterations of time, it hung about Ryiek. A mantle he drew tight about him. Thick, sluggish, it oozed into his pores, synchronizing with the mad laughter that pierced from the wells of his belly.
Release.
The pale snow of a feathered dove leapt from his palm. Erupted in thunder, clapped as wings lifted ever up, pursuing the open sky. Sudden silence fell, a veil spreading from the heart of the wilds. An echoed still. Cries of terror took flight behind; a cavalcade of movement, of hooves and paws and wings so frenetic in hopes of escape. Beasts of a feather clawed in haste from Ryiek.
Sheets of rain pelted down, misted and fogged as it touched the ground. The eyewall of the storm shuddered. Like a breath, it expelled first gently, then violently from on high. Wind whipped and cracked and whirled about. And Ryiek skipped from toe to toe. Open palms filled with water (as grains of sand; they dripped from him, a trickle that vanished into the coming downpour).
Thus was the tempest called, its gaze stretching over the Valen, slicking the wilds in murk and mud. The tremulous lifeblood of nature's own laughter.
The bob of a head, an openmouthed grin. His throat twisted and clenched, releasing a dissonant trill. The day drew young before him, and in it, he found freedom. Wrists light, ankles unfettered, shoulders loose and absent the cords of a tension so often found in the mundane.
Ryiek, swathed in raw silks and a regalia of hide, crooked a finger to the sky. Bade it welcome. Energy cracked the corners of his eyes. Green, effervescent when set upon by the sun's peerless rays. Pulsing, thrumming, the hum and canter broke cadence. A cackling cacophony that coursed the blue of his veins; lightning answered his call.
Purple and red and gold slated hues sundered the air. As a rod, his raised finger collected the energy, scintillating with power. In subliminal space, suspended through all iterations of time, it hung about Ryiek. A mantle he drew tight about him. Thick, sluggish, it oozed into his pores, synchronizing with the mad laughter that pierced from the wells of his belly.
Release.
The pale snow of a feathered dove leapt from his palm. Erupted in thunder, clapped as wings lifted ever up, pursuing the open sky. Sudden silence fell, a veil spreading from the heart of the wilds. An echoed still. Cries of terror took flight behind; a cavalcade of movement, of hooves and paws and wings so frenetic in hopes of escape. Beasts of a feather clawed in haste from Ryiek.
Sheets of rain pelted down, misted and fogged as it touched the ground. The eyewall of the storm shuddered. Like a breath, it expelled first gently, then violently from on high. Wind whipped and cracked and whirled about. And Ryiek skipped from toe to toe. Open palms filled with water (as grains of sand; they dripped from him, a trickle that vanished into the coming downpour).
Thus was the tempest called, its gaze stretching over the Valen, slicking the wilds in murk and mud. The tremulous lifeblood of nature's own laughter.