Log: Seven and Fiach. Who: Seven and Fiach. What: Meeting. When: Weekend-ish. Where: The woods around the lake, because why not. Warnings: None! Cursing, maybe?
The on and off rain of the week had lead to a humidity hanging in the air. It was uncomfortable, rolled off the lake and cloyed to the skin uninvited. So, Fiach sought solace in the places he knew from his heart, from his being, what he was. His feet lead him to the woods. Trees nestled together, umbrellas of green that kept the intense heat at bay, the sun only able to scatter among the foliage. The further he stepped in the deeper the relief, the respite from mugginess. Twigs crunched under his feet, the earth shifted under the soles of his shoes--and perhaps, he realized, he had missed this.
Running a hand through dark hair his fingers release the natural curl hellbent on escaping. As much as he was proud, and by the stars he was a proud prince, banished or not, he could not deny the call in his veins pulling him back to whence he came. They were of earth, sky, and sea. This is what made them and this is what called them, and he was no exception.
Playing human was exhausting.
Fiach finally sat on a large grey stone nestled next to an ancient oak, more like he lounged as a serpent would bask under the day, black hair, black eyes, black from head to toe. His head fell back, dramatics abound, but it was refreshing to feel shadows sweep over his face. It was a recharge of its own after endless time trapped between walls, stone and iron. So perhaps he was allowed flair for dramatics, after all, they suited him. He was no fool, he knew his flippancy was undoing. His desires bordering on frivolousness left him blind to betrayals that cut bone deep. Still, for a moment, he remembered he indeed was a prince, and what a life that was.
He stayed displayed languidly as such even when keen ears picked up breaking leaves and rustling foliage in the distance. Someone was approaching.