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11-14-2015, 10:32 AM
Fine white sand crumbles beneath cleft hooves; a pale raven flies above in lazy circles, his twin mirrored on the water below. It's hot today, but a gentle breeze blows off the ocean like a benediction, tangling hair and easing spirits. Lothíriel hums as she walks, a lilting maritime hymn her mother taught her as a child; it recalls the splendor of an empire by the sea inhabited by children with proud horns on their brows, ruled by a blue-eyed king. Did they spend endless hours playing in the tides, letting the days pass like the salty west wind beneath seabirds' wings? Lothíriel does not know what her parents were like in their youth, but she imagines a young Deimos chasing gulls; a fledgling Huyana playing in the tides. She wonders if the Moonlit Tides of her parents' childhood resembles this small celestial heaven.
So enthralled in her own fanciful imaginings, Lothíriel almost fails to notice a dawn-kissed stranger wandering through the shallow water. The mare is made after her own image: delicately built, with topaz eyes and a flower crown. An uncertain frown pulls at the nymph's lips when she notices the angry blistered skin and singed hair marring an otherwise beautiful hide. Her own burn, only recently healed, aches in solidarity, an ugly reminder of a foreign god's wrath. The queen of flowers cannot let a sister in arms suffer like this—how unbecoming that would be!
"You need a healer," she says, slowly approaching the aurora-mare, the soft white sand clinging to her dark legs. Lilac eyes regard her softly, an (thoroughly uncharacteristic) expression of beatified concern playing on refined features. Lothíriel rarely plays the part of the Savior, but something about this exquisitely wounded girl calls to her, like a wilted flower in need of a little care; Huyana would be so proud of her altruistic daughter. Careful to give the girl space, the sterling mare pauses expectantly just short of the water's lip; she may be a saint today, but she certainly isn't stupid.
still all the water in your wells won't make it grow
[omg so sorry for the wait. school was really killing me for a bit! D:]
@Persephone
So enthralled in her own fanciful imaginings, Lothíriel almost fails to notice a dawn-kissed stranger wandering through the shallow water. The mare is made after her own image: delicately built, with topaz eyes and a flower crown. An uncertain frown pulls at the nymph's lips when she notices the angry blistered skin and singed hair marring an otherwise beautiful hide. Her own burn, only recently healed, aches in solidarity, an ugly reminder of a foreign god's wrath. The queen of flowers cannot let a sister in arms suffer like this—how unbecoming that would be!
"You need a healer," she says, slowly approaching the aurora-mare, the soft white sand clinging to her dark legs. Lilac eyes regard her softly, an (thoroughly uncharacteristic) expression of beatified concern playing on refined features. Lothíriel rarely plays the part of the Savior, but something about this exquisitely wounded girl calls to her, like a wilted flower in need of a little care; Huyana would be so proud of her altruistic daughter. Careful to give the girl space, the sterling mare pauses expectantly just short of the water's lip; she may be a saint today, but she certainly isn't stupid.
how the rose in your heart you hold
[omg so sorry for the wait. school was really killing me for a bit! D:]
@Persephone
