but somewhere here in between the city walls of dyin' dreams

Rain poured down, blanketing the world in a gray drizzle that pummeled the fog into the ground. Tendrils of it swirled about his home, trying to dodge the rain, trying to stay alive—it seemed almost alive, like a writhing beast, claws and fangs snapping at its enemy.

Or lover—the world didn't have to be such a dark and cruel place. What was wrong with a few hugs every once in a while? A playful embrace? Stars knew Mauja had gone from distant and detached to nearly attached to Tembovu's hip, leaning into the sturdy stallion whenever they were more or less alone. There was something comforting in having found someone larger than himself, someone whose shadow he could hide in, someone whose pulse was steadfast as it echoed into him.

But the struggle between rain and fog seemed more like just that—a struggle, and not a passionate dance. Ghost-hands wove through the rain drops, beckoning, and the steady tinkling of the downpour striking leaves turned into a whisper. Come, it seemed to say, come closer, follow, and with nothing better to do, he followed.

Follow, follow, follow...

Thunder roared. Lightning struck, flashes of supernatural white lighting up the muted world before letting it fade back into a deeper darkness, and Mauja wandered slowly through the Edge. The rain simply whispered follow, nothing of haste, and with the owls lurking in some tree—because they were not going to fly in this without good reason—he was blind to his true goal.

Besides, it was the closest to peaceful he had felt in a while. The battles with these Rift Gods, and the illnesses, had torn every last shred of tranquility and sanity from his mind and left him angry, and bleak; washed out. Death was a terrible and final thing. Death was no place for little girls of just four-five years.

The trees grew a little thinner, the last of the fog vanquished by the rain; he paused where he was, listening to the beckoning song of the rain (follow, follow, follow...), and turned to peer over his shoulder. A few tendrils of mist danced behind him, waving and flickering like fire, seeming to urge him on. He shrugged, and went on. What else did he have to do, but follow the playful imaginations of his mind?

A flash of lightning lit up something white collapsed against a tree—fragile and slender, pale as a ghost. Long, silken hair spread out like a halo on the ground, a pool of angel's blood—

He rocked back in the flash of light, startled, but with the darkness he realized what it was: a horse, fallen to the ground with a tree against her shoulder. A gryphon sat beside it, golden eyes vigilant. Fallen, but not alone, then. Guarded still. Slowly, with his head low, Mauja drew nearer. Another flash lit up the scene, making her perfect white, like something out of a nightmare, or a fairytale; something not quite real.

But she was real. Oh, she was real, real enough, a ghost of his past; soft and velvet, with fire in her heart. But she was thinner now, washed clean by the hammering rain—but still so familiar, from the point of her plush muzzle to the still mud-stained tips of her too-long tail.

"Arah," he said, quietly, gently, concern lacing his light voice. If not for the steady rise and fall of her sides, he would've thought she'd come here simply to die.

[ @Arah ]

man, I ain't changed, but I know I ain't the same