.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
09-30-2014, 09:32 PM
When the two look over to her and then among themselves, there is a long moment of silence – almost too long. She sighs, crossing her arms over her chest, tilting her head so that her blue tinged, pink and pearlescent lips pout in sorrowful aggravation that they cannot speak.
Finally, drawing her attention with eyes that grow wide in anticipation, her arms falling to her sides and her hands clutching her fingers tight to palms, hoping that he’ll name it as a land where these are only wild mounts, free in the wilderness fringing cities – that he’ll say anything at all would be a fantastic start. He sighs.
Helovia, he says, in a rich voice for a beast with four legs, one that makes her brow rise in curious wonder at the spectacle before her. Can his companion speak as eloquently? The last place she floated adrift upon had animals that spoke, to be sure, but it was gruff, primal, animalistic in comparison to the way his face mimics the articulation of his words as if he truly knows what they mean.
Either way, its bad news; what hope there is in his pretty voice is lost in the nothingness it brings her. Another hundred years in the sea and a few measly weeks here among talking unicorns for her – and it is her time to sigh, plopping herself down into the sand and folding her ankles up beneath her knees, leaning back with her palms flat and fingers extended behind her. She’s heard of this land – its nothing but animals, ruled by horse Gods, and she’s far above her sisters who breed with such ilk.
”The sea has cursed me,” she says to the sand at her feet, suddenly looking back to the curt unicorn stallion who answered her, rising to her legs quickly and brushing the sand from the back of her thighs, ”Erva Marinha.”
It’s her name, and it’s offered with a small bow that bends her bodice only slightly at the waist, a small flourish of her hand extended to the two unicorns.
”I don’t suppose there is suitable shelter for a hairless thing like myself nearby, is there?” she asks, the wind answering her with its chill touch that sends bumps thriving along her white skin. It was an unfortunate day for a selkie who washed ashore in a land without clothing readily available in such a season.
Finally, drawing her attention with eyes that grow wide in anticipation, her arms falling to her sides and her hands clutching her fingers tight to palms, hoping that he’ll name it as a land where these are only wild mounts, free in the wilderness fringing cities – that he’ll say anything at all would be a fantastic start. He sighs.
Helovia, he says, in a rich voice for a beast with four legs, one that makes her brow rise in curious wonder at the spectacle before her. Can his companion speak as eloquently? The last place she floated adrift upon had animals that spoke, to be sure, but it was gruff, primal, animalistic in comparison to the way his face mimics the articulation of his words as if he truly knows what they mean.
Either way, its bad news; what hope there is in his pretty voice is lost in the nothingness it brings her. Another hundred years in the sea and a few measly weeks here among talking unicorns for her – and it is her time to sigh, plopping herself down into the sand and folding her ankles up beneath her knees, leaning back with her palms flat and fingers extended behind her. She’s heard of this land – its nothing but animals, ruled by horse Gods, and she’s far above her sisters who breed with such ilk.
”The sea has cursed me,” she says to the sand at her feet, suddenly looking back to the curt unicorn stallion who answered her, rising to her legs quickly and brushing the sand from the back of her thighs, ”Erva Marinha.”
It’s her name, and it’s offered with a small bow that bends her bodice only slightly at the waist, a small flourish of her hand extended to the two unicorns.
”I don’t suppose there is suitable shelter for a hairless thing like myself nearby, is there?” she asks, the wind answering her with its chill touch that sends bumps thriving along her white skin. It was an unfortunate day for a selkie who washed ashore in a land without clothing readily available in such a season.
