#vast.

𝔳𝔞𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔯𝔬𝔴𝔰 𝔥𝔦𝔰 𝔢𝔩𝔟𝔬𝔴 𝔟𝔞𝔠k, landing a diminishing strike on the drunken fool who'd taken his bait. his penchant for playing devil's advocate was sharper than ever now that the darkness of his nightmarish powers had returned. there was no proper place to vent his aggression, so, he waited like a predator around the drinking halls of the dusk court, to that edge of night when tensions rose and filters all but vanished. where the veritas syrups dubbed whiskey and ale did their nastiest work on the low-spirited fae who drank themselves to sleep every eve. and then, he poked the fires until they roared, and lost himself in the flames.

by the time the brawl is over, and he is banished from the tavern, vast sports a mean cut over his eye, and a blooming, purple bruise under his jaw. and his ribs ache. it will take hours to heal, and he's glad of it. it's a distraction, something to lose himself in that isn't the black mass of his past, of his vicious powers consuming him.

𝔰𝔱𝔦𝔩𝔩𝔫𝔢𝔰𝔰 𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔰𝔥𝔞𝔡𝔬𝔴 are vast's dearest companions. they swath him in a tight embrace, carry him silently over foreign terrain, cosset his cheek, and beckon with curling fingers. the season has turned, and he is clothed in heavy leathers lined with soft deerskin and wool, and still, he moves like a wraith — seamless, footless, like water carving its silken path down a mountainside. he is but another dimension of the shifting shadows that swarm beneath a canopy of evergreens and bare, clattering branches.

what brought him out beyond the city is much like what brought him to the dusk court in the first place: fate. he answers when he's bidden, and he outruns the darkness of his own nightmares when they won't relent. this instinct has kept him alive all these years, kept his general and illyrian brothers alive.

as he approaches the edge of the treeline, he sees a bald cliff ahead, a landing overlooking the city. nothing an archer loves better than high ground. hazel eyes survey his surroundings quickly; no one's coming. as he slips between trees and heads toward the open, he notices ...the once tall grasses that stood here have been scorched to brittle bark, the earth is ashen, and blackened bones litter the ground.

a fucking dragon's perch. fuck.

and then he hears them: massive wings beating in the dark overhead, and the trees around him stir to life as the serpentine beast prepares to land. vast's own wings tuck tightly against his back, and he folds himself into the shadows, watching, silent, invisible. just another shadow, or so he hopes.

𝔤𝔩𝔬𝔳𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔢𝔯𝔰 𝔯𝔬𝔳𝔢 𝔞𝔠𝔯𝔬𝔰𝔰 𝔞 𝔯𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔬𝔣 𝔪𝔦𝔫𝔱 𝔟𝔩𝔞𝔡𝔢𝔰, never used, and his eyes wander to the shelves above which hold scabbards and sheaths. these are the weapons they give drafted soldiers — boys too young and men too old — when numbers are needed and the threat is too great. vast lifts one of the common blades, tests its weight, takes a glance down its straight, gleaming edge. it's well-made enough for its dubious purpose, but not for his. rounding the corner, he finds racks of new bows. countless are carved from yew, fewer forged from iron. at the end of the aisle, buried in dust, he finds a cast-off bow of ancient-make, its beautiful details caked in years of grime and neglect, but it fits perfectly in his hand, as if it's been cradled for centuries by a man of his same stature. the string needs replacing, the hide of the leather on the riser oiled... when he hears the heavy armory door opening, he spins on his heel, irritated that the inventory he's taking will be cut short. he slips the found bow around him like it's his own and walks toward whomever entered, planning to slip past unnoticed.

Music - Turquoise remix -VAST