[M] shot me down as I flew by

March 17th

POSTED: Sat Mar 16, 2019 1:56 pm

WARNING: This thread contains material exceeding the general board rating of PG-13. It may contain very strong language, drug usage, graphic violence, or graphic sexual content. Reader discretion is advised.

OOC: Set March 17th; Ascher's assault.

The lowest curve of the sun kissed the horizon, spreading a blanket of fire-red over the fields and meadows. The man moved slowly through grasses that brushed his knees, fed by Spring rains as they were – or as they had been.

Just as his hands were calloused by years of walking, running, crafting, Ascher’s brow was hardened by worry as he went about ensuring the animals were fed and watered – the latter, of course, with those untainted sources that remained to the Court.

All was far from well. Though Taufir and Tarina were safe, so far, Ascher had always felt the pain of others too deeply. He had wrung his hands when Chaska’s body had been discovered and stifled sobs when he’d learned of Mottle’s demise. Both had seemed like good people despite their vastly different pasts – and Ascher would always be willing to mourn the loss of a good heart.

The ageing Stormbringer was moving, these days, with increasing aches and stiffness in his joints. He could see the fluffy mounds of sheep, still some distance away, and knew that it would take him a good few minutes to reach them.

At first when his legs were swept out from under him he believed that his limbs had finally given out on him – that too many years of activity had caught up to him, and that he would have to call for Tarina to help him back to the village.

But when Ascher turned his head and opened his jaws to send up a howl, he realised that his legs hadn’t ceased functioning; he had simply been pushed over from behind. It could’ve been the playful shove of a teenager for all Ascher knew – until he heard voices that were quick and foreign.

And now some blunt article, backlit by the bloody sunset, was heading for his skull.

The elder managed to muster enough sense and spirit to move so that the blow glanced rather than caving in that most precious of vessels which had once held all his hard-earned knowledge – but still he was lost to blackness as the sheep bleated mournfully across the fields.

It's always darkest before the dawn

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someone to fall back on

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