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01-04-2016, 02:08 PM
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Isopia The devil is not as black as he is painted. The night sky flared brightly above. Orangemoon had brought with it prolific and violent storms, but at night the skies seemed to swell and clear, revealing a host of stars. It was on one of these particular nights that Isopia had wandered away from her silent and secluded grove. The Falls, for as densely forested as they were (which Isopia liked, for it afforded her the privacy she coveted), also blocked away much of the sky. And so the expanses of the Endless Blue called to her, and she readily obeyed. The air was warm enough, but every so often a chill would gust through, stroking Isopia's blood-patterned coat, and reminding her of her mortality. Her body at least, was subject to the elements. And, she had recently learned, her heart was subject to a torrent of emotions that she thought herself immune to. Heart ache. Jealousy. Longing and the associated loss. Isopia had never really expected anything out of life. She took life as it came at her, allowing it to roll off of her shoulders with the sweeping justification of a determined universe. She sanctified her outlook by dogmatically believing that desires, needs, wants just led to despair and grief. Only death would satisfy her curiosity and her longing. While she lived, she would merely navigate the world as she saw fit, with no expectations, no box that events needed to fit into for her to understand them. Her mind was large enough to accomodate that. But then ... she had expected. Silently, lingering somewhere in the fertile soils of a garden that she didn't know her mind even had, seeds were planted. Tendrils of life grew, of desires and wants. Isopia hadn't tended to them, but nor had they been eradicated. She watched the pulsing of warmth that flooded her veins in Volterra's presence with a clinical and detached interest. Only once or twice had the feeling enveloped her so fully that she became mentally distracted, but that was all it took. Roots coiled themselves tightly around the cockles of her heart, and infected each thought and every breath. Her love for him (for truly, that's what it was), let seedlings blow and billow into other aspects of her mind, and she unintentionally and unassumingly created obligations and expectations of the ruby-eyed stallion, that she didn't even know existed until those seedlings withered and died in his presence. She was not special to him, not unique. But she thought she had been. She had expected him to drown out the roar of the world for her. How ridiculous. You're being ridiculous, she thought to herself. Pain, of a mental sort, gripped her as tears began to form in the corners of her golden gaze. We all know the pin-prick of pain that can come with tears, but to Iso, this hurt was worse than any other she could imagine. Worse than Abraham's dragons, of Kaj's kicks and blows, of the poison of the Rift Gods. It was worse, because it was caused by her own weakness; worse, because her mind couldn't stop it. And so a tear slid down her death-marked face, over her clenched jaw, and onto the moonlight grasses which were already, magically, sliding up her long forelegs. |
