.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
08-19-2015, 02:55 PM
matador, estocada, you're my blood sport
Starlight flickers through the spaces between boughs like a thousand radiant eyes fixed on a black velvet face; they watch silently as tiny flowers sprout unceremoniously from beneath cloven feet, clusters of flora scattering the dim earth with color. The fortuitous pair interrupts the dreaming forest's calm tonight, ashen wings and sable legs traveling as silently as their tired bones and creaking joints allow. Despite her worn state, Lothíriel seems as if she belongs beneath this starlit sky, a creature of the night; a night-blooming flower. The last time these trees had seen her, she had been little more than a child, mindlessly chasing her dam's heels as they forsook the only home she ever knew; but she is much older now, the sharp angles and lankiness of childhood giving way to the pleasing contours and curves which came with fecundity. Her body trembles with exhaustion, but she chooses to press on, an uncharacteristic agitation lending her steps a hurried and irregular rhythm. "We're almost home," she tells her raven plaintively, sounding like she's reassuring herself more than anything. An uneasy breath passes through delicate nostrils, filling her lungs with chilled nighttide air. I am not be afraid, she reminds herself, saying it silently like an a prayer, an affirmation, an oath. The night may be long and deep, but she is a flower-wreathed daughter of Cinnoru, so she must forget her fear and continue. With every step, her mind wanders; she tries to remember her father's voice, her brother's face—all the things which meant home, but she cannot recall them in this darkness. All she knows is that the night is cold and sharp as a knife, and that the velvet hand of longing threatens to tie a noose around her throat. The reflections of stars swim in her lilac eyes. |
