.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
08-10-2014, 02:40 PM
en natt så kall och månen den var klar
He was the deer in the headlights, frozen in the rush of possibilities.
Something, some force of nature he couldn't pin, locked his muscles and trapped his mind. Perhaps it was his wish of a guide, of someone to lead him up these steep, familiar slopes, of some smiles and laughter to ease the aching heaviness suspended inside his chest. Perhaps it was because he just wanted someone to tell him that everything would be alright—but he was past the point of believing in that.
But now, that he'd remained there for too long, as if hesitating on the brink of the path to his erstwhile home, and she was too close, and upon whatever hinge his fate turned the balance shifted. It always did—every breath, even the ones of sleep so soft to barely stir a hair, altered the fabric of the world in some way.
The things you didn't do changed just as much as the ones you did.
Would she be a savior, or a tormentor? The odd lightscape darkened her, from bronze to spattered with the dying rays of a blood red sun, spoiling the white with its tints of maroon. She looked like no more, nor no less, than any other Helovian he had met; unique in her own way, in the lithe build of her refined, compact frame, bland in the bay hairs but just as exotic with their distinct, personal shade. Because everyone was different; you didn't need leopard spots or intricate, fanciful patterns as artful as if created by a God to be different.
He watched her in contemplative silence, too distracted by the whirling of his thoughts to properly realize that she was well within talking range—well within the range where he ought to acknowledge her with something more than the simple churning of his guarded blue eyes. Lost, as much in his desire to remain composed as in the depths of his mind, he remained poised where he was, an elegant statue crafted and thoughtlessly left on the beach, halfway to somewhere. Only the rise and fall of his chest, and the swaying of his mane, betrayed him as a creature of flesh and blood.
"It'll be dark soon. You should head home." He blinked. She sounded strangely genuine, as if she cared about what a stranger did here on the slopes towards the Edge—it shouldn't surprise him, but it did. He'd met many kind strangers, and yet he always expected their ire. Admitting defeat, for now, he inclined his head and realized that sometime in the past minutes of watching her, he'd put down his front hoof again.
Mauja opened his mouth to speak—to say, I have no home—but the words died before they formed upon his tongue. It was true that he had no home but the one that the hearts of his owl gave him, but at the moment it seemed so bitter and pessimistic that he swallowed the words again. Wasn't that why he was here, anyway? To see if he could find a place to anchor, and no longer drift wherever the storm shoved him?
"I was headed up to the Edge," he hedged, dark nostrils expanding to drag in more air, once again testing her scent. Was that a hint of pine embedded in her, of gulls and salt and moondust? Or was it just his wishful thinking, that the fact her path seemed to align with his meant something more than coincidence?
[ @[Leeka]. ]
Something, some force of nature he couldn't pin, locked his muscles and trapped his mind. Perhaps it was his wish of a guide, of someone to lead him up these steep, familiar slopes, of some smiles and laughter to ease the aching heaviness suspended inside his chest. Perhaps it was because he just wanted someone to tell him that everything would be alright—but he was past the point of believing in that.
But now, that he'd remained there for too long, as if hesitating on the brink of the path to his erstwhile home, and she was too close, and upon whatever hinge his fate turned the balance shifted. It always did—every breath, even the ones of sleep so soft to barely stir a hair, altered the fabric of the world in some way.
The things you didn't do changed just as much as the ones you did.
Would she be a savior, or a tormentor? The odd lightscape darkened her, from bronze to spattered with the dying rays of a blood red sun, spoiling the white with its tints of maroon. She looked like no more, nor no less, than any other Helovian he had met; unique in her own way, in the lithe build of her refined, compact frame, bland in the bay hairs but just as exotic with their distinct, personal shade. Because everyone was different; you didn't need leopard spots or intricate, fanciful patterns as artful as if created by a God to be different.
He watched her in contemplative silence, too distracted by the whirling of his thoughts to properly realize that she was well within talking range—well within the range where he ought to acknowledge her with something more than the simple churning of his guarded blue eyes. Lost, as much in his desire to remain composed as in the depths of his mind, he remained poised where he was, an elegant statue crafted and thoughtlessly left on the beach, halfway to somewhere. Only the rise and fall of his chest, and the swaying of his mane, betrayed him as a creature of flesh and blood.
"It'll be dark soon. You should head home." He blinked. She sounded strangely genuine, as if she cared about what a stranger did here on the slopes towards the Edge—it shouldn't surprise him, but it did. He'd met many kind strangers, and yet he always expected their ire. Admitting defeat, for now, he inclined his head and realized that sometime in the past minutes of watching her, he'd put down his front hoof again.
Mauja opened his mouth to speak—to say, I have no home—but the words died before they formed upon his tongue. It was true that he had no home but the one that the hearts of his owl gave him, but at the moment it seemed so bitter and pessimistic that he swallowed the words again. Wasn't that why he was here, anyway? To see if he could find a place to anchor, and no longer drift wherever the storm shoved him?
"I was headed up to the Edge," he hedged, dark nostrils expanding to drag in more air, once again testing her scent. Was that a hint of pine embedded in her, of gulls and salt and moondust? Or was it just his wishful thinking, that the fact her path seemed to align with his meant something more than coincidence?
[ @[Leeka]. ]
Se dem brinna över verkan se dem dansa framför bål
Se dem mässa inför satan se dem smida sina stål
Se dem mässa inför satan se dem smida sina stål
