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you and all of your bundled up mistakes - Walkure - 02-26-2016 all of the jewels in the crown would never make you happy, but damn, they're worth trying Fatigue settles in her bones as the shadows lengthen, drawing thick bodies into slender, long and narrow masses that catch and mingle within one another, fading with the hours of time. Snow has caught itself up in the tangled mess of golden strands, cradled in curls that barely hold themselves into place, hanging with their fingers lazily strung into the body of gold. They drape their wounded and broken bodies across her lovely back, wanting to so desperately kiss the skin buried beneath a winter coat that is quite possibly too thick for this winter. Her travels were forced southbound, moving away from things, listening to the sounds of birds and other animals change as she fled a home that couldn’t possibly define itself as home anymore. Back there, she had been a thing of beauty, a symbol of whatever people could make those with blood made of hope that was forced into the veins, never by choice but need, never stopping to think that of what was the brain of such people. She claimed herself better than them, better than all of their naive minds and worthless hopes, looking for something greater, and here it had gone ahead and blown up in her face. She walks alone, bringing shallow but quick breaths from her nostrils with name sake know living up to what it is meant to be, carrying the guilt of all the souls that she has ruined. Winter birds mock her as she stops, dragging the remains of her beauty behind her, tail knotted and mane threatening her with dreadlocks. Her forelock doesn’t even move with the same grace that it had once done in the past as her crown moves, small, delicate ears twirling as if they dance when she tries to find the silence, wishing for once that there would more silence in the woods that are now bathing themselves in the dying orange hues of sunset, descending to the lightly blanketed ground as it gripped wispy fingers over dead, empty black branches that reach for the sky like desperate fingers. A stamp hushes the birds only briefly, listening with ears held as far forward as they will allow themselves to go their laughter turns to cries of terror and fear, abandoning the dirty and worn mare until she is left to stand alone in her small opening in the trees, leaving her with her thoughts that tell her it’s time to keep moving and to not look back. OOC: Asking to just keep it as her and @Colt for plot reasons. RE: you and all of your bundled up mistakes - Colt - 02-26-2016
RE: you and all of your bundled up mistakes - Walkure - 02-26-2016 all of the jewels in the crown would never make you happy, but damn, they're worth trying She shouldn’t wish for things. Just as the quiet begins to settle it’s scared and trembling fingers into the palm of Night’s hand, preparing to take it for a dance, she finds herself the victim of her own fears, ripping it away and fleeing, bolting from a possible mistake. The Valkyrie’s skin leaps atop her bones and shakes below the mass of her winter coat. You are not alone is what the world is now whispering within her small ears, repeating itself time and time again. Branches snap in the shadows and forms, or a form moves about in the skeletons of dead trees. Companionship is nice for a night, but she is not to trust so easily. It might be one of them, or an assassin, one that sees something held to her head that she does not. There’s eyes clung to her body and tension kissing every breath she takes before she breathes it in, rubbing cold and bony fingers against her rib cage so that when she drags it down to the depths of her lungs she’ll be forced to know that it’s so thickly there. Eye contact is briefly made, and Walkure crown-like skull rises upwards and levels out, looking down upon a mare that makes the insides of her chest twist. Amatersu, is that you? Oh, how you’ve gotten smaller. ‘Sister….’ This strikes a cord. She is a general, a woman of power, a woman who could crush this puny being into the ground with her armies and then later forget because how many others have you done that to in the past?, and she remembers that this is a place that doesn’t whisper her name with either hatred or admiration. To this mare, she is nothing but a small statue of gold with snow and looking like no one wishes to care for her anymore. Once a jewel, now nothing more than a stepping stone towards islands hidden in thick fog. Ears draw back as she thinks, closing away violet eyes so that this mare can no longer have the grace of looking into them. “We are not sisters.” Harshness rules over her voice when it spoken in what is meant to come as a relaxed tone, instead slipping free with a soft care and bladed edges. “And we will never be, so do not call me so.” A snort flutters out with a chuckle from her, now slowly opening her eyes to watch the reaction of the mare. Naive. “What is it that you want from me?” Paranoia slams dirty, bloodied jaws against her lips and works it’s way into her mouth, reminding her that is acceptable to all sorts of punishments. That instead of being but another stranger, is she eternally subject to her actions, forced to suffer till the day she dies. Oh, what a way to live. RE: you and all of your bundled up mistakes - Colt - 02-26-2016
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