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Bad luck is like a shadow.
He could feel it, following him, hard on his heels in the deep shadows of night. Overhead is a velvet black sky, the moon's light veiled. He can not even see the branches of trees that arch above. Even in spring the brisk wind blowing from the north holds a chill of winter. It troubles the dreams of sleepers, reminding the primal part of their mind that the cold times are never far away. The smell of ice on the wind is unnerving. His ears lay back against his skull, disappearing into the shaggy mass of his silver and black striped mane. Each slow, careful step is accompanied by the soft rattle of bone beads. Every rattle forces the shadows back. It drives away the spirits that would feed on it and grow strong with ill-will.
He still feels hunted. He cannot run, and yet he has never stopped. The darkness forces caution. His shoulder scrapes a tree, unseen in the dark. He shifts his weight away but does not shy. It would be dangerous to move quickly at such a time. The tree poses no danger besides surprise. The unknown always holds some peril.
Too, the darkness seems quiet. Silence lays like a stifling blanket over the woods. Only his breath and the rattle of beads break the stillness. Imani does not know, precisely, where he is. His flight from Dorobo had been long and largely reckless, driven by fear and guilt and the spirits that dogged him. Lands all unfamiliar.
Now he senses something though. Perhaps a lingering smell. He chooses to believe it is spirits speaking, familiar spirits. There is... something. Here, there are some lingering memories of sun baked grass as tall as his shoulder. Of hot winds and mud flats awash in the rainy season.
A high wind shifts the clouds, pushing aside the dark curtain until a slice of silver moonlight cuts through. The moon itself is low to the horizon, and it's gentle light cuts a path through the trees. Opposite the moon, the horizon begins to lighten as the night slowly turns towards morning.
He breaks out between trees with a gentle rattle of bone. The moonlight, yellow now rather than the silver of poetry, catches the black and ivory striping of his horns. His hooves, similarly striped, still their forward motion. He lifts his head. Mismatched eyes watch the slowly descending orb, wondering if perhaps it is a sign. Somewhere behind him, a bird's song breaks through the sullen silence.
He could feel it, following him, hard on his heels in the deep shadows of night. Overhead is a velvet black sky, the moon's light veiled. He can not even see the branches of trees that arch above. Even in spring the brisk wind blowing from the north holds a chill of winter. It troubles the dreams of sleepers, reminding the primal part of their mind that the cold times are never far away. The smell of ice on the wind is unnerving. His ears lay back against his skull, disappearing into the shaggy mass of his silver and black striped mane. Each slow, careful step is accompanied by the soft rattle of bone beads. Every rattle forces the shadows back. It drives away the spirits that would feed on it and grow strong with ill-will.
He still feels hunted. He cannot run, and yet he has never stopped. The darkness forces caution. His shoulder scrapes a tree, unseen in the dark. He shifts his weight away but does not shy. It would be dangerous to move quickly at such a time. The tree poses no danger besides surprise. The unknown always holds some peril.
Too, the darkness seems quiet. Silence lays like a stifling blanket over the woods. Only his breath and the rattle of beads break the stillness. Imani does not know, precisely, where he is. His flight from Dorobo had been long and largely reckless, driven by fear and guilt and the spirits that dogged him. Lands all unfamiliar.
Now he senses something though. Perhaps a lingering smell. He chooses to believe it is spirits speaking, familiar spirits. There is... something. Here, there are some lingering memories of sun baked grass as tall as his shoulder. Of hot winds and mud flats awash in the rainy season.
A high wind shifts the clouds, pushing aside the dark curtain until a slice of silver moonlight cuts through. The moon itself is low to the horizon, and it's gentle light cuts a path through the trees. Opposite the moon, the horizon begins to lighten as the night slowly turns towards morning.
He breaks out between trees with a gentle rattle of bone. The moonlight, yellow now rather than the silver of poetry, catches the black and ivory striping of his horns. His hooves, similarly striped, still their forward motion. He lifts his head. Mismatched eyes watch the slowly descending orb, wondering if perhaps it is a sign. Somewhere behind him, a bird's song breaks through the sullen silence.
