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12-13-2013, 03:28 PM
 The babbling of the shallow brook obscured the sound of her sobbing and her salty tears mixed with the fresh water as they fell from her eyes. She was standing at the eastern most corner of the Thistle Meadow, her pale head hanging low above the waters of the creek. Her soft, pristine white mane created a veil over her face and hid her emerald eyes from the world. Her downy wings were loosely tucked to her body and her four tan hooves were placed far apart. Her body shook slightly with every sob and her legs trembled softly. She had just had one of the worst attacks since she left her birth land. She had been crying uncontrollably for over an hour and she was exhausted. The pain and lack of sleep had slowly gotten to her and when she had reached the beautiful, tranquil meadow her fragile mind had given in. Since her run in with Ricochet she hadn’t slept more than a few hours and with every step she took pain sliced through her body as her recently burned, half-healed skin was stretched. She was out of the woods as far as infection goes, but she still had tremendous pain after the buttermilk stallion had burned her with his explosive magic. The young dove took a shaky breath and opened her swollen eyes. She watched the distorted, white reflection in the water that was supposed to be her and let the air wheeze out of her nostrils. She snorted and lifted her head somewhat to rub her eyes against her white knee. Every movement hurt, but not as bad as it hurt to walk or fly. The dove stopped rubbing her eyes, straightened her neck and looked back down at the shallow creek. She saw a few small fishes maintaining their position in the water by lazily fighting the weak current and she also saw a frog sitting on a rock on the other side of the brook. ”I am glad…” she whispered softly, but fell quiet for a moment. She turned her emerald gaze towards the blue sky and the burning sun who didn’t grant her much warmth. A flock of geese passed over her in a v-shape and she could hear the chatter of a squirrel in a nearby oak tree. ”I am glad that I am alive.” she finally breathed into the crisp Orangemoon air and suddenly she felt a little better.  Märk hur vår skugga, märk, Movitz mon frere Inom ett mörker sig slutar Hur guld och purpur i skoveln, den där byts till grus och klutar Vinkar Charon från sin brusande älv och tre gånger sen dödgrävaren själv Mer du din druva ej kryster därföre, Movitz, kom hjälp mig och välv Gravsten över vår syster! |
