Oxy

The land is dying, trees giving up their last ditch efforts to hang onto their leaves, dropping them onto the ground to become barren and withered. Even the birds seem upset by the changes, as an ugly screech disturbs the peace, sending smaller songbirds that had not yet migrated south to the Throat up from their perches. You roll your eyes at the disturbance, but do not stop. You are on a mission, your lilted and uneven gate sending you crashing into trees every now and again, but you do not slow. You are trying to find the miniscule pony that you command, to see what has come of her mission to the Throat, but you are finding her conspicuously absent and you are becoming frustrated. Her failures are raining down on you as your failures, and you will not be sabotaged.

Turning away from the inland areas of your home, you begin to wander back towards the fall that graces your land, marking the clandestine pathway that winds its way into the bowels of this place. You had been avoiding the trip, but now it seems you must go south to find the pony. She has disobeyed your orders- you will see to it that she pays.

Your companion flits nervously about you, attempting to stop your angry stomping, but you only bite at her, shooing her away, reminding her that she should remain silent or she will pay too. And though she isn’t certain how you really can, you’ve beaten it into her head since she was young that you are master and she is nothing but a tool for you to use. Most of the time she believes it. There are moments, instants, where she dares to defy you, but only in secret- or as much secret as she can manage. But there is nothing to defy you about now; she obediently retreats, remaining above and behind you.

But before you can leave, your interest is piqued by the image of one very familiar rainbow vomit stuffing her head into a lake, soaking wet as she retreats from her unnatural residence. You’ve heard of ostriches sticking their head in the sand, but you suppose they would still be able to breath. Surely the moronic peahen does not think she can breathe water. But then you understand her fervor when you catch sight of something twinkling in the sun. Ah, yes, you have a couple of those hiding in your man bag beneath rooted locoweed shoots.

“I should relieve you of your burden,” you grunt as you approach her, your companion still frightened into silence, though the site of the bird doing the peahen’s bidding does interest her greatly, as he was not present on your last meetings. But she hesitates to interact with him for now, still fearful of your outburst. As for you, you nosily watch as the bird-thing begins his work on the first amulet, all the while pondering whether you should attack her and try to steal the second one or not.


@[Bellona]

scars remind us our past is real