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I already know I'm going to hell so at this points it's go big or go home It was time. She had put off this day for too long, holding in the child with all of her will, all of her wishes that this was just a dream and that she would just fucking wake up. There wasn't going to be any of that, no night in shining armor would kiss her from the treacheries of her mind, of herself. She was all alone in this, and as pain pinched her eyes closed and rumbled through her small, skinned frame, she fell to the ground, a heap of shadow and violet, of misery and mistakes. The cold was little to her burning skin, to the sweat that collected underneath her amethyst cloak and on top of her silken onyx coat. Fog seeped and crawled on the ground, covering her legs in a mask of clouded porcelain. The mountains behind her were the only protection she was offered(she did not dare think of what existed within their rocks and pines), for the expanse in front her was a deadly concoction of whistling winds, shifting fog, and space, oh so much space. The cares of where she was slipped away as the severity that twisted and tossed within her grew, the tortures and agony of the night only beginning as her price was cripplingly paid. Her body begins to take over as the first time mother lays victim to it's contraptions and searing torments. Somewhere in the back of her mind she wanted him here, but knew that Panzram was no man that would be what she wanted, the vixen didn't look for the men she needed, but rather those that were what she didn't. He too was forgotten as her pain branded the air, her vocals distressed and loud. Despite her attempts to be invisible, Zandora is vividly placed within the eye of the world. She is a shadow amongst a white truth. She does not move, does not breath although her thirsty lungs starve for oxygen, does not do anything but blankly stare, emotionless. She is no mother overwhelmed with the gift she had brought to the world, that cannot wait to lay eyes on what she had so beautifully carried around for so long. No, she does not want to look, does not want to see what burden, what beauty she delivered to this cursed world. For Zandora is no mother, no lover, and this child would grow up into a world with innocent eyes, and realize all too quickly that she was unwanted. The only choice she had, the only justice Zandora could offer the creature was death. The arabian stands, her body feeling hollowed, not by the voidness of the creatures weight, but by the emptiness of herself, of her heart. She has yet to look into it's eyes, does not want to look into it's eyes, for the less she saw the less she would remember, would regret. Her head bends, amythest horn lowering to the tender, wet flesh, horn hovering milimeters away from everything that she could've grown to want, could've learned to love. Her eyes move then, and they look with her own, the child's orbs reflecting her, expect a pupil lain innocently placed within young eyes. Zandora crashes then, melting at the everything that she would grow to want, would learn to love. Hastily she lets her brain take over as her tongue cleans the child's coat. Her daughter's coat. Hers. Something reflects in Zandora's eyes, and although she does not know what love really is, this, this was love. OCC: @Panzram I am going to post Cor, anyone now welcome! |
![[Image: 56a075b49df35]](http://images.helovia.net/index.php/view/56a075b49df35)
No restrictions on things that can happen to Zandora, please tag in first posts only.
