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08-10-2015, 06:27 PM
There's black and gold on the horizon, the stark colors a sharp contrast to the mainly monochrome world around her. It takes a moment for the significance of that to permeate beyond the hazy serenity of Nymeria's mind. When it does hit her (and hit her hard it does) the equine comes to a sharp halt, lifting her head and flaring her nostrils. There's a scent of someone on the breeze (as would be expected)—something like desert sand and roses, and the faintest tinge of Confutatis. In this place of dull starlight, the unexpected scents are out of place, an incorrectly coded error.
It—she, he?—did not belong here.
Still, caught in a sleepwalker's trance, Nymeria makes no effort to investigate the source. Rather, it's approaching her, and its indistinct form is slowly becoming sharp and altogether too clear for comfort. Black skin. Dark wings. Markings like twisted gold. And a horn. Lashes sweep and slide together, clearing red irises full of uncertainty. Yes. She is there still—a hybrid, a wrong.
A wind whispers around her hooves. Little creatures spring up from the pale sand, ghostly rabbits and birds formed of rock and stone, which dissipate as the breeze dies.
Ears flute forwards. Nym's head tips. Lilómiel's emotions should resonate within her, something to resolve her, to awaken her, but instead he is dull and silent, their bond muted. That itself should jar her, snap her into some sort of semi-waking; but instead, Nymeria sighs, the sound echoing queerly through the pillars. Slowly, idly, the equine filly lets her gaze rest upon the hybrid. Lips move, eerily too slowly for the speed of the words. The dragon above rises, circles, becoming no more than a distant smear of darkness in the sky.
"Why are you here?"
It—she, he?—did not belong here.
Still, caught in a sleepwalker's trance, Nymeria makes no effort to investigate the source. Rather, it's approaching her, and its indistinct form is slowly becoming sharp and altogether too clear for comfort. Black skin. Dark wings. Markings like twisted gold. And a horn. Lashes sweep and slide together, clearing red irises full of uncertainty. Yes. She is there still—a hybrid, a wrong.
A wind whispers around her hooves. Little creatures spring up from the pale sand, ghostly rabbits and birds formed of rock and stone, which dissipate as the breeze dies.
Ears flute forwards. Nym's head tips. Lilómiel's emotions should resonate within her, something to resolve her, to awaken her, but instead he is dull and silent, their bond muted. That itself should jar her, snap her into some sort of semi-waking; but instead, Nymeria sighs, the sound echoing queerly through the pillars. Slowly, idly, the equine filly lets her gaze rest upon the hybrid. Lips move, eerily too slowly for the speed of the words. The dragon above rises, circles, becoming no more than a distant smear of darkness in the sky.
"Why are you here?"
I get high, and I love to get low
So the hearts keep breaking, and the heads just roll
image credits
@Ranjiri
Yes I lied, don't think about you all the time
All my switchblade words ain't aim to cut your sweet delusions
