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The atmosphere of the night is bewitching; it encircles her in an embrace of veiled secrecy, shadows that build sanctuary from the toils and trauma of the day’s trials, an invitation to slip away into the illusion of a fantasy. Larkspur longs for the comfort of the darkness to remain with her for all hours, an escape into an obscure oblivion, void of existence’s chaos, the constant bedlam and pandemonium that came with the arduous task of living. She is a soul lost, tangled and ensnared by the monsters and demons of the past that clamber and claw their way up out of the deep wells of her memory, phantoms and wraiths that hiss of her inequity, harken to all her flaws and imperfections. Savagery dissipates; ferocity flees, leaving in its wake a fragmented, saddened imitation of what was, but no longer is.
A stranger’s voice, unexpected, trills alongside the whisper of the wind, the sound a flicker of light disturbing the enchantment, breaking the hypnotizing fascination of the evening’s gloom.
“Greetings - I'm Lena. Who are you?”
Surprise draws the cerulean lady away from her thoughts, causes her to move in anticipatory instinct, shattering the stillness of the water, the brief illusion of serenity. Immediately she withdraws to the familiarity of suspicion, easily falls into the assumption of misgivings, mistrust, and doubt. Golden eyes, like beacons against the shaded cobalt of her uncharacteristically softened expression, watch with jaded caution, quietly observing the mare that has appeared before her, composed of the colors of the earths, russet hues that match the warmth of her voice, the evident kindness of her lingering gaze. History generally repeats itself, so too do individuals fall into the practice of habit, but for once Larkspur finds that the vexation of unplanned company does not strike her, nor does her preference for solitude drive her to vacate the premises. So she acknowledges the new comer with a cordial dip of her horned brow, deference that she has yet to offer to anyone else in her time in the cold, star strewn valley. None had been deserving until now.
“Larkspur.” Her name is given like an offering, filled with brief glimpses of what might be considered hopefulness. Her voice is absent of its usual biting malice, and the wilderness that often drives her is partially quelled, her spirit softened, perhaps tempered by the uncanny quiet of the midnight hour they linger in.
Loneliness creates a cavern in the hallow of her chest, voids her of contentment, allows her to long for the satisfaction of another’s understanding. But this is something she would never admit to, never speak of, for things like weakness and insecurity do not exist in the foundations of her moralities. Dependency is for the faint and feeble, and she will not be chained and bound by the admittance to the enslavement of reliance, the weight of fickle things like fate and faith. Lena is privy to a momentary glimpse of relinquished obstinacy, a rare occasion of reaching out, a dangerous compulsion to traipse across the boundaries of her own reservations.
[OOC: You make me aspire to be a better writer Heather!! *flails happily* <3]
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