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10-06-2013, 04:52 PM
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He leapt and danced, him as fleeting as a deer, all liquid grace and jeweled eyes, sparkling bravado and exquisite joy drawn onto his normally fearful face. The wind carries him, brushing his back constantly, ruffling his mane the wrong way and tangling his dark forelock about his pearl horn, but he does not care. He flies to see Onni, to confront her and question why she had not told him the whole story, but also to feast his eyes on her and feel the warmth of her skin pressed against his. There is joy and freedom in his grace, a fluidity like pouring water in his limber muscles, as he cuts through the wind likes an arrowhead, an unhesitating arrow heading for home, the very center of the Throat shaman's heart. Unyielding, refusing to turn right or left no matter the terrain, he moves straight, hooves pounding the earth beneath him, mud splattering his cleft feet and spraying up his legs, leaving him coated in boots of mud. As the spring nights shorten and summer begins to rise, he runs faster than ever, the world a thundering blur around him, the heat of the sun glaring down at his pale coat. Paranoia threatens to suffocate him, but what pains him most is the chance of letting Onni down. Now that Lena has enlightened him, taught him of the history, he could better understand the tension between them. Soon all truths would come out however. Slowly the verdant pines of the thistle meadow shifts to barren white trees, cloaked in the misery of death. They are pale fingers reaching for the sky, alabaster lovers reaching for the deserting clouds. His cleft hooves clatter on stone as he springs across a lonely creek wending desolate way to the ocean, watching it fade swiftly behind him into the distance. At last he slows, bypassing the veins and heading towards the marsh. A deep curious strikes him, as his imagination is fuelled by imagery of dead bodies and bloated corpses. Last time he had been here, he had met a filly of vermilion and gold, cream and crowned with an antler on her head and wings at her shoulders. He had glimpsed the pools of the spectral swamp only in passing, and he could remember the glimpses of tepid, festering white things in the water. No doubt there was a story to explain the rotted horses in the brackish waters... Carnesîr wandered in silence, cleft hooves keeping to the path carefully. Fear deserted him, replaced by morbid inquisitiveness. He looked into the cold waters, felt the chill on his skin as he moved quietly, a ghost among ghosts. From his nearly-360 degree vision the stallion caught glimpse of a mare, a sleek black something that had wings of a raven, dripping profusely with a sweat that soaked the rich ebony coat. His eyes followed her as she fled by him, running from nothing, appearing not to notice him. Reminded peculiarly of himself, trying to out-gallop his nightmares, Carnesîr began to drift after her, careful to stick to the narrow path winding without purpose through the gruesome mementos of some long-forgotten tragedy. He gained on her without sound, well-used to the movements of the run, eyes soft and thoughtful, without fear of the unknown to burn them. Shadows gleamed on her oily black skin, as her head dropped and she began to drink at the dead-infested water. Revulsion curled inside him, thickening in his stomach and throat, and the young stallion padded closer. "Do you realize there dead things in water?" He asked her, voice mild and vaguely preoccupied, brown eyes with a mischievous glint in them. Tell me your secrets, unburden your memories, and I'll save them for safe-keeping. |
