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larkspur There's a ghost, she's wearing my face. Even in Tallsun, mornings in the mountains remain chilly at best, the cool air accompanying the sunrise, until the light frost is reduced to dew drops on the tundra like terrain. In the valley below the living things thrive, green and vivid and as vibrant as the summer sun that heralds the season. The hot spring are a place of laughter and gathering, foals frolic and seek out mischief away from their parents sides, and those of the Basin busy themselves with planning for the festival that Larkspur has only heard whispers of since her return. However, the rocky outface of the mountain sides and the craggy outcroppings and hidden grottos remain barren in comparison to the life that flourishes below. They’re cold, unwavering, rising up over the valley like sentinels. It is only fitting that the Time God’s oasis in the frozen land scape of the north be nestled amongst the only things in the world that may rival his agelessness. And it is above the din of the living and existence of the real world below that Larkspur finds her escape. She lingers, as she had done so many times before, as silent and unmoving as the mountains at her back. The blue-bay mare enjoys the feel of solid, unshakeable rock beneath her hooves, the morning jaunt up the mountain side to catch the sunrise yet another luxury of the living world that she has missed since her disappearance. She boxes those thoughts up though, locks them away in the deepest recesses of her mind so that she doesn’t have to remember months of endless shadows and nightmares. And that’s what she tells herself it was, her time beyond the Haruspex’s looking glass, because any other explanation aside from a terrible, unforgivable dream would only make her question her sanity further. She struggles with the weight of not truly knowing what happened, even now, and the fact remains that she may never know. It is out of her control, as much as falling into the mirror had been in the first place, but it is that very lack of control that still troubles her. She scuffs a dark hoof across the gravel and rock under hoof, dips her head and runs the length of her black and ivory brindled horn across her foreleg - a nervous tick. She is a midnight blue shadow against the grays and browns of the mountainside, a hovering specter, and appropriately so. She is as much a ghost as the creatures from children's stories and old wives tales, except her haunted spirit is no mere apparition - it lives in the flesh. Her return has left her with little comfort of past recollections, her memories evade her, and sometimes are lost completely. She has struggled to remember faces, and names, but to little avail. Lena, sweet, kind-hearted Lena has been the one constant, and Larkspur thinks of her dear friend with more fondness than she ever cared to afford anyone else. Her affection for the healer is a rarity, something the normally steely and quiet warrior would not admit to. Lena’s unwavering faith, despite Larkspur’s own tendency to fixate on cynicism, is what keeps her grounded now. And it is because of that she manages to throw herself back into her role as protector and keeper of the realm. She has always been a soldier, and some things - no matter what the circumstances may be - never change. @[Caneo] |
the Rift
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[OPEN] Climb is all we know. [Caneo]
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