Summer

White clothes. Originally the symbol of Protoss who weren't born white-coated, a way to hide from the shame of not being 'physically pure' under the eyes of their society. That until Empress Arden, daughter of Great Khas, started using them in every meeting, every ceremony. Many Lorekeepers joined in an outcry, questioning her for breaking the tradition. And to those, she replied, "These are the clothes of someone who is in shame, are they not? Then I am not breaking traditions, for I am ashamed of our species. My mother spent her entire life fighting to bring us all together, and yet, we still treat each other differently based on something as trivial as physical attributes." Zerathur rested in silence as his long and loose clothes slowly flowed with the current, giving him a rather phantasmagorical look as the soft glow of energy bleeding drizzled off the dull blue eyes. He breathed in, sweet and clear river water running up his nostrils and filling his lungs, and for that moment, he wondered how it'd feel to drown. The hearts slowed to a near halt, the muscles became slow and unresponsive, the vision grew foggy, but he didn't die. The protoss stayed still for a couple of minutes before breathing out the water in his lungs. All previous tries ended in panic, what has changed for this one to've been a success? The chloromancer kicked off from the bottom of the river, swimming upwards with the agility of someone who spent half of their life in the water. He broke through the waterline, gasping for air in the middle of heavy coughs and spasms. The water breathing spell certainly did help by not allowing him to die out for the lack of oxygen, but it still took a few healing spells to repair the damaged lungs. Zerathur pulled himself to the shore, walking a couple of meters away from the riverbed before collapsing to the side. Under the warm sunlight, the protoss felt the approach of a familiar presence. The metallic flower slithered across the ground, climbing up the wet mane and wrapping around one of the ears. "Purpose." Whispered Astria, tightening her grip a tiny bit more before letting go and moving back towards the pile of belongings in which she was until then resting on. Zerathur stared blankly at her for what felt like an eternity, and only then did he find the strength to rise back to his hooves. "You are right." He answered while using part of the inner reserves to dry himself, a cloud of water particles poofing off him with a single twist of the hoof. The archmage strapped his spellbooks around his chest, wrapped the messy navy blue mane in a loose ponytail, and quickly threw the brown greatcoat over the white clothes he always wore. "For too long have I been holding onto a thin rope. I had nothing to live for. But now, there's someone who wants my guidance."