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12-16-2014, 06:34 AM
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Sheba
With your eyes closed, you cannot mark the passing of time. Thus, you do not know how long you lie there in the sludge, waiting for death. You drift in and out of sleep (or delirium, it’s hard to say which), feverishly grasping at the dreams and memories that pass through your mind like shadowy ghosts paying their last respects. A snatch of a song, a hint of a face…wearily, you wonder what has become of them all now, these specters of your past. Have they all crumbled to dust, just as you soon will? Or do they live on? Do they think of you at all, Sheba? Or have they forgotten you, as you have tried so hard to forget them? But it seems that you cannot even go about the business of dying in peace, for the crunch and slosh of hooves in the icy slush interrupts your soul searching. Irritated, you open a rheumy eye to find a winged stallion standing over you. Your first instinct is to tell him to get lost, but when you open your mouth, all that comes out is an incoherent rasp—and oh, wonderful, now it’s too late. You can’t shout over him while he’s speaking. “Are you all right?” the stranger is asking, though you both know that the answer to that is obvious. I’m dying, you want to whisper grandly. That ought to take the bounce out of his crunchy steps. Maybe then he’ll go away and you can get back to your deep and personal musings. But before you can draw enough breath to impart that impressive tidbit upon this lovely Good Samaritan, he says something that you cannot help but respond to. “I’m a healer,” he informs you earnestly, “Please. Please, let me help you.” You suck in a sharp breath, and a scratchy laugh bursts weakly from deflated lungs. In the meantime, he is attempting to shelter you from the cold with one of his wings—a well-meaning gesture, you suppose, but it won’t do any good. “Don’t bother, cherie. What I’ve got, you can’t cure. Only old Fireball can, and I don’t suppose I’ll ever see him again,” you wheeze, making the mud bubble with your violent breaths. You don’t begrudge the Samaritan his attempts though—in your last moments, you have decided that it is permissible to indulge in a little bit of this sappy drivel. At least you won’t die alone. Irony seems to be having its bit of fun with you today, for as soon as you think that, your death suddenly becomes a party. The telltale crunch-slosh-crunch-slosh of another set of hooves signals the arrival of a second pegasus, this a one black and white mare who introduces herself as Aly. It also appears that she knows your Samaritan, for when she speaks, she addresses him as ‘Mikey.’ Brightly, she suggests that you move to where it is dry, and your ears tilt back in exasperation. Would you be lying here in the muck if you could help it? Oh, how far you have fallen, Sheba, to be dying in the dirt like this. Frustrated, you are about to lash out at the gentle mare…when something catches your eye. As she bends over you, the glass trinket around her ears dances and shimmers in the light. Your thoughts dart to the baubles buried in the tangled remnants of your once well-kept mane, and you remember their creator. The one who crafted them for you possessed a talent you had never seen elsewhere—surely this was his work as well? “Dragomir…” you breathe, gaze focusing on the twirling glass heart. "talk talk talk" @[Miykael] |
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