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09-13-2015, 04:00 AM
She's just like the weather. Can't hold her together. Who is she? She knows what she is not, but not what she is. She is not the resplendent queen like her mother, a being rippling in femininity and grace. She is not the bloodlusting warrior like her father, a being draped in blood and rage. She tries to slip into the skin of huntress, the pet name her mother gave her so many seasons ago. That title only causes her to wonder.. What is her prey? Who is she hunting? How can she be a huntress if there is no hunt to enact upon? Arya knows she is barely more than a maiden, and she just stands questioning the very purpose of her existence. All her life she knew what she had wanted to be. She wanted to be a hero, a glimmering pillar of strength and power. What is a hero even? Everything had been so black and white in her youth. The world is nothing but grey to her now. It frustrates her. This strange crisis she has entered in transition from filly to mare rattles her to the core. Despite the fear the burns beneath her surface, she remains calm and cool upon the surface. The heat of the huntress has slowly turned cold. She contains her fury, trapping it somewhere deep inside of her. This crisis of sorts drives her away from the icy grips of the Basin. With the passing seasons it has grown to feel less and less like home.. It is her parents home and whether it is her home is to be seen. So she just trots onward, the place around her foreign and new. The huntress takes in the details of the strange place, the darkness around her causing one ear to swivel back against her skull. She comes to a stop and scents. “What the hell is this place?” She mutters. "talk" |
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