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Birdsong had ushered life back into the world, the woods of the threshold filled with the constant din of nature and the living, the scuttle of small, unseen animals, the familiar chirping of birds. Green could have been the entire definition of the flourishing woodland, creeping vines clawed and clambered their way up moss shrouded tree trunks, while baby soft grass sprouts and fights its way through thawed spring soil. The sun, warm and inviting, filters through the newly thick canopy of trees with bewitching brilliance, cloaking the world below the protection of the tree tops in eerie, enchanting shadows. A solitary unicorn mare stands in the protection of dark obscurity, sooty blue coat fading and melding into the shade like a wraith, occasionally catching the light with each shift of her hooves against already upturned earth. She is the only thing that is silent, brooding, out of place amongst the festive clamor.
Larkspur is not generally one to remain withdrawn in repose, but the mare was tired and travel worn from her journey. Her appearance is unkempt and haggard, legs and hooves caked with dirt and mud from tromping through low lands flooded with water that has over reached the boundaries of rivers and streams in the presence of the warmer weather. Her long, dark mane is tangled and twisted in a mess of haphazard strands, debris clings to it, proof of her wayfaring. Her body craves nutrition; she is light for lack of proper feeding. Weary muscles ache from the abuse of overexertion, and Larkspur curls her head to her chest fleetingly, in an attempt to pull the tightness out of her shoulders and her back to little avail.
Yet despite her semblance of a creature fatigued, tawny golden eyes tell a different tale altogether. As she waits, and watches, an unspoken hint of devilish mischief lingers there. The mare is uncertain of what she seeks, and knows only what she leaves behind. A mother, who constricted and suffocated her with the impossible wish of having a daughter who would fit her predetermined image of propriety. A dead father, whose memory seemed harder and harder to hold onto despite her best attempts, wisps of smoke escaping through the cracks. An old life, stained with war and emptiness, a time she spent as another body marching in line with the rest, lost amongst the masses.
Still lost, perhaps.
She has stood still too long, and her legs protest as she propels herself forward into the shimmering, filtered light and out of the soothing comfort of the shadows. Others have passed here before her; she can smell their lingering scent along with the other musky aromas that saturate the forest. Ever cautious of her surroundings, Larkspur proceeds through the tangled maze of trees with practiced discretion. She had been given no rhyme or reason to trust anything or anyone she met along her way in this unknown place, and past experience had taught her to be prudent. She craves water though, and thirst makes her attentiveness waver, for when she spots the stream ahead of her after walking for some time, she tosses precaution to the wind. Larkspur forgets herself as she rushes the bank, hooves splashing and tail dragging through the water, her eagerness akin to that of a child as she drops her head to drink.
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[BASIN] Your mouth is poison, your mouth is wine. [COMPLETE Deimos, any]
