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09-05-2012, 08:46 PM
The mare ruffled her wings distastefully at the heat emitted from the hot hole shooting to the center of the earth. Her wings, damp from the recent rain, revelling in the heat flowing across them now, heating up every piece of fluff. It had been a long and tough flight from the Threshold, and she had finally paused at this golden pit in the middle of the world. Coughs wracked her body, and pain blistered in her sore wings. Exhaustion weighted her down. The sun blinded her eyes. Ariia, sick and blinded from the sun that had burned her eyes, stumbled. And she fell, gravel scraping and bruising her knees, rock yanking back on one of her wings, her muzzle rasping painfully against harsh unyielding black rock.
All she could think before the blistering pain was how pathetic her death was as she spun out of control, her wings soaked to the bone and completely useless, just dead weights. They flapped weakly, but they were too water--logged, dragging her downwards. What a horrible death, plummeting to the core of the earth. Fear and rage poured through her palomino body, and she let out an awful wail of sadness, and then she plunged through red-hot, slow-moving magma and gold lava and she was no more than a memory.
All she could think before the blistering pain was how pathetic her death was as she spun out of control, her wings soaked to the bone and completely useless, just dead weights. They flapped weakly, but they were too water--logged, dragging her downwards. What a horrible death, plummeting to the core of the earth. Fear and rage poured through her palomino body, and she let out an awful wail of sadness, and then she plunged through red-hot, slow-moving magma and gold lava and she was no more than a memory.
