macaria

palest shadow; darkest light

Today it wet. So very wet. She thinks about these things, the wet things and the things that make them all slippery and soggy. Like the squishy ground, the spongy mosses, dripping ferns and soaked leaves of all kinds. She decides, here and now, that she likes it when it rains. She likes the constant fog, the twirling mist, that is perpetually spilling from the clusters  of waterfalls big and small. She can here the violent gushing of their splendor in the background of where she is, which is lurking around alone in the jungle-wood. Aloooone. She has not been alone much in her short life, short of that wee time when her mother died the day she was born. After that she has been watched like a hawk by either Dad, Brothers or at the very least someone that has been asked to watch her by either of those previously named.

Not today!

Nope. Today she wanders aimlessly with wide honey eyes that twinkle at each thing she studies. Brightly painted frogs get her attention for a while and after that she follows a pair of such color she's never seen – not even on the coats of the most exotic citizens she's seen running around Helovia. Their tails danced and so did they, one in particular being the most 'dancy' of the pair. This one chirped and waved his vibrant tail all around, bringing seeds back the other. She watches them until they abruptly take their leave, spooking at some nearby crashing through the trees. Her attention snapped to the commotion as soon as the birds gave fright. Her eyes searched the sunlit greenery for something in the distance, but she see's nothing. The gray day makes it a bit harder to see anything beyond 30ft. Her ears are tightly upright and her nostrils pick through the smells. What was that smell? It smells..like blood? It smells like fur, blood, and rock. She can smell the leaves on it's fur, whatever it is, and the fragrance of decayed meat. She's suddenly not sure how she knows this particular array of smells., but she knows it is not good.

It's close. She stops her hoof and snorts, a behavior the boldest of deer taught her when she was little. She does this once, twice and a third time. Silence settles...the only thing making any noise or moving is the light rain dripping from the trees onto the ferns and mossy below. She stands silent and watches, her breathing slow and sparing, as to hear much better.


Where did all these weird instincts come from? Damnnn.