Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
“You are worthless,” the bay mare spat between hisses and sibilates, snaking her head towards the child like a vicious, vehement serpent, close enough to spill toxic breath over the babe’s downy head. “Worthless and weak.” Her brows furrowed while the filly shook, turning away the rubble and ruin of a scion, lost, a candle’s flame waning and withering, down to the last pools of wax. “What a waste.” Then she was gone, back into the mist and fog, leaving the Lilliputian statue reeling in the loss of warmth, quivering and shuddering in her bed of wildflowers.
She’d see her mother again and again, crossing over battle lines, leaving more marks and scars, glancing at her from the forest edge, promising, hoping, praying she’d never be like the monster demon, felling her enemies left and right, thinking naught of bedlam, of disaster and ruin.
Time altered in a fixed crescendo of confusion, bewilderment, and panic. The Songbird awakened, alone, gasping, struggling to breathe, choking back bile closing over her throat, thrashing her beguiled limbs amidst a nest of undergrowth, beckoning for peace, for serenity, for repose. She recognized nothing, and closed her eyes, willing herself back into stormy resistance, into mired fortitude, into rancorous, composed perseverance. Behind her lids only greeted the most persistent of nightmares, granting no relief, and when she reopened her gaze, her mind felt rusty, befuddled, irrationally slow and dull. In a listless sort of haze, she struggled to stand, maneuvering her front limbs from underneath her chest, but her shoulders, like the rest of her frame, felt muddled and foggy, resisting her membrane’s powerful commands. She shook her head in prolonged gestures, swaying back and forth on the restless breeze, on the silent whirl of autumn, on the strange sounds of trickling, falling water, a bizarre notion because the Basin didn’t have any beautiful, glorious waterfalls; only the wonderful notions of the Hidden Falls did, because she remembered it from their trip in armistice and extensions of festivals – the agony struck again, and the nymph fell back into her bed of shackles and ferns, unconscious.
Imogen chirped, wild and frenzied. Lena reached out for her, attempted to coax tranquility back into the chaotic situation, scrambling while her body shook, trembled, and quivered; muted fright flooding over her senses, unsure if it was the kitsune’s or her own. The vixen scrambled alongside the frost-covered Arch, bleating out tremendous roars and malevolent curses, wicked and demonic; a vision of Ares in fox form. Will get help! Will go to Basin! Lena is strong. Will be back! Will hunt down inky thing! Then gone, gone, gone, like her mother, like her father, and the femme closed her eyes on the fringes of tears, before she was consumed in a black, abysmal fog.
The hours wiled away, closing and snapping over her frame, and like clockwork, as the sun crested the daylight knolls, the fairy roused again, pulled away from the spiritless murk, listening to the ringing sounds of a battle thundering nearby.
Reality sunk like a stone, punishing and puncturing over her spine, across her neck, down over the ridge of her ears, pressing against the Time God’s feather, whirring and sparking and quivering in the dawn’s bristling light. She grew rigid, and sank further into moss and pebbles, apprehension clouding over her senses, veracity rasping, clawing, and clenching along her skin, nurturing all the fears she’d ever had until they were blistering, scorching thorns, pricking and poking and lacerating her insides. She should’ve been out in the sun, chasing after her brethren, providing them with endless songs and junctures, relieving their pain, their anguish, as they fought for an ally’s wish. That had been her plan, after all, seizing the restless ambitions and munitions of a stalwart, gallant heart, reaching out if after they’d said it wasn’t necessary, even when they said they didn’t need her there – perhaps it’d been wrong to believe herself wanted.
She’d only caused more trouble.
The sylph raised her head, pricking her ears to the sights and sounds of ghostly armaments, imagining her icy kin breaking past defenses and conquering foes, while she was chained and fettered nearby, in the wood, unable to get to them, to see them. She remembered the edges of the Arch, pressing firmly into their glacial walls, into their heinous, dangerous outcrops, not worried about her late arrival, just determined, resolute, and adamant, eager to unleash her potency so her companions could continue in their abhorrent crusades, and then the sudden appearance of bundled herbs appearing at her feet, the ever-overwhelming curiosity entangled in her mind, the vivid plumes nestled in their heinous wake, and finally the earth-shattering seizure of her limbs, the crash to the ground…
The femme, no longer bright, no longer effervescent, just a muted, dull portion of the forest, blending into its earth tones and rustic bark, bent and curled her head down into her forelegs, horrified by the idiocy she’d displayed, so indignantly ashamed of herself.
@[Ink]
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
Credit URL
| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 16.2 hh :: 6 years |
| Blu |
 |
I watch her with an endless curiosity as she stirs from her forced sleep, its dreams seemingly unknind if her moans and thrashing were anything to guage it by. I have lived through such a similar dreamland, in days past, in a place that was not here. Its fog still settles in the back of my thoughts, obscuring things I once knew, batting me away whenever I tried to reach for them.
I sighed softly, lamenting this course of action, but such is the thinking of a panicked bird.
Dark wings heavy with wet feathers flutter as I glide down to her side. Small, beady black eyes reflect her image as they shine in the dawn light. I tilt my head, beak clicking with a quiet slopping as moisture ns across its own kind. Darkness drips from my stillness, pooling at the ground, staining the grasses and the dirt. I cast a cursory glance around, wary, protective, and then I hop back. As I move I rippled, my body shuddering with magic as the drawn bird is snuffed out into a midnight rain.
Hooves replace the thin toes, a soft muzzle the hard line of a beak, scrawny mane the bristle of feathers, and a sleek body no less shiny or absolute in its abyss of color overtakes the small and plump avian shape. I stand as a horse again, whole in the most minimal sense of the word.
The thin length of my neck extends to and potentially over her, if she remains still. I grimace as I look at her, the line of my lips set as if to speak, but instead the fall into a pained frown which wrinkles up by my eyes. Gently I step back, casting my tail against me like a shawl in which I intend to hide, its length and thickness strange compared to the almost emaciated presence I keep. I am hiding, like any artist, behind my brush. Its hairs gets to work, dark water seeping from their tips onto the canvas of the land. I draw for her my silent apology; a ring of black flowers that bloom gloriously around her.
This unkindness I have wrought her is the uglness of my trade, one which I bemoan now that I am charged with her care, and her hurt. Could I make amends for my transgressions? With the battle already underway she was an unnecessary piece to keep, though I caught her anyway as she came tardy to the fray, her lateness the only thing that drew my attention. I guess even if I'm ashamed of my work, I'm proud of it too, because I caught her regardless of need, but wish to blame it on such.
I sigh again, and in response my brush strokes out an obsidian butterfly which is sent fluttering to her nose.
I want to talk, in the only ways that I can. It's the only worth yet remaining to her imprionment, company for this damned soul.
(Ink will release Lena if she allows him to visit her home with her. He'll try his best to convery this during our thread ^^ Apologies for typos, on kindle and it fails at spell check.) |
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
She folded beneath the lush canopies, the enduring rich void of verdant greenery, painting a picture of apprehension as she imagined ghosts of knotted, rolling vines seeking her nape, lacing and weaving across her throat. A necklace of thorns, a noose of creeping, crawling, gnarled barbs, threatening, unleashing, tormenting as she wished for ice, for glaciers, for slivers of rime and snow. Phantoms murmured horrific, furtive secrets, bandits harpooned acrimonious vestiges, and the shadows licked carnivorous bounties across their paradise, taunting, haunting, a constant masquerade, a molten paradox. The Songbird shivered in the wake of damnation, breathing endless, apprehensive chords down the rankling of her spine, uttering oaths, convictions, pledges, and reveries into silent, sumptuous laments; a dirge climbed through her throat and out into the shade like a trembling ember, never given the appropriate flame. Her thoughts rambled to the images of Arah and her children, captured then tortured, seized, possessed, and lacerated over and over again (did they scream, or did they tolerate, putting up a brave face when their guards merely wanted them to sink into the earth?). Would this happen to her? Was she doomed, sent into pits and pendulums, transfixed to horrors, beguiled into terrors, until she was broken, splintered, and fractured? Was she damned, released into the shrill notes of silence, forced to listen to her brethren fight while she was incapable of fleeing? Was she truly the sacrificial lamb now, the bird immolation, a nightingale trapped in her cage, fluttering and flickering and flittering before they tore her wings (and what about all the things she’d left unsaid, all the things she’d left undone)? Was she the forlorn pixie, nestled and buried and ground into chains, into tethers, into shackles, while the rest of the world clambered on, and she was the forgotten maiden, lost in the woods, with no means of bargaining, no fairy magic to embolden? The largest query surrounded and piled across her cumbersome sight and her weighted ruminations, flooding in a vicious, unwinding cascade: what was she to do? When there was an opportune moment, would she bear arms? Would she grind her teeth and sink into acrimony, into entropy, into violence? Would she run, chase heaven and earth, summits and peaks? Or would she stay, stranded, hoping, waiting, sobbing and crying, a damsel in distress?
The latter notion caused her head to swing upwards in a movement of pure sedition. Her gaze blazed for a few trembling seconds, bright, sparking denizens of injustice, of revolutionary tendencies, then caught the inky form of her captor, and drew back into the hollowed contortions of silence.
He was unlike any other beast she’d seen before, sable, but drenched in swarming droplets, a ceaseless paintbrush, an artist’s rendition of sustained dimensions, gliding and dripping, rippling and unending – she narrowed her stare, flamed some caustic imbalance, but never voiced their regards. She knew naught of him: was he a brooding force of danger and disaster? Was she sent to their cruelest guard? Would he slash her with a stiletto? Would he make her blood a canvas? Her heart thudded wildly in her chest, coiled and curled on her nest of disquiet, consternation, and moss. If he grew any closer, he’d be able to hear the untamed crescendo, the intoxicating fear, the overbearing hold nerves and tension tied over her mind; she wished he’d say something, anything, to be able to explain his decision in rendering her captive – for she had naught to offer. She had songs. She had hope. She had courage. She had love and cherished, adored friends, but none of these were tangible, corporeal regimes, she couldn’t bear him something ornate except the whimsical folly of her arias, and they wouldn’t be coming as she quivered with alarm and foreboding.
The ring of black flowers adorned the world in a flash of shadow and obsidian, and she didn’t know if they were grown by regret or for her impending funeral. Lena raised her eyes back to his, watched the beautiful, Stygian butterfly dance and hover at the tip of her nose: she was immediately torn between crying, screaming, or sustaining the inevitable. Instead, she did none of these things, closing her eyes to the ferns threatening to strangle her, then reopening them at the ends of their fray, iron in her veins even when poignant edges sought to unravel her. Strength, steadfast and persevering, was her only rapture, her only reverie, her only bit of succor. On a calm, composed voice, she spoke into the void, towards the painted beast, towards the veil of specious arts. “Why am I here?”
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
Credit URL
| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 16.2 hh :: 6 years |
| Blu |
|
Her hesitation, possibly even better called fear, was evident in everything she did. It sent a thrum of pain through me, as if I were an instrument that she had plucked. Yet, I suppose it's rather unkind of me to consider myself the victim here, when she lays at my very feet. Still, I have no chains with which to bind her, no burly guard to seize her (they are all fighting), no strength in which to keep her. Should she but rise and run, she'd be free. I suppose the drugs are still wearing off though, but by sunrise she'd be free, and the war would be over.
I glanced to the side as that thought sung through me, gaze fixed on the horizon as if the longer I stared the better and further I might be able to see. I could still hear it, the fighting, but I was not as startled as I had been before. Most of them would be engaged now I imagined, and I always had my magic...
I glanced back to her as her question fell upon the world. In response my ears tilted back towards the west, towards the setting sun and the very fray she'd been tardy to. I shook my head in response, features drug into a sad line. Surely she knew - was it necessary to ask? I could give her no better answer than the sounds around her.
Then, the sky rippled, and the sunset was thrown into shade as night fell upon our realm with unexpected haste. I blinked, shying and ancy at first, but calming when no further mayhem ensued. Still, unbeknownst to me, I had erupted into a fountain of ink and reformed myself as a small, dark squirrel. In my cowardice I'd scrambled to shelter behind Lena, if she'd have me. The moments ticked by, but still I drew breath, so I poked around back into the open. My fluffy tail twitched as I lifted on my hind feet, once again begging the horizon for answers. Who won truly mattered little to me; only my life, and ideally a place to call home and graze in, was important. Perhaps given time I might have grown loyal, more like a cat than a dog, but in this hour, I continued to serve myself.
Such was the conflict that I faced now that I had taken Lena. I glanced back at her, the body of the squirrel replaced with my horse self. I snorted as my body emerged, the sensation odd, even if well known. I had taken her because it was my duty, but I wanted to ask her the same question she posed me. Why was she here? What was this war even about?
Drawing up into myself, tall and lanky, I cast my long tail towards my front hooves. Ink sprouted eagerly from the tips, and I worked it into two dark horses as I thrust my tail, my brush, back and forth. One horse was plain, while another bore a horn. The two met, then rose up to rear and clash, falling into each other in an inky mess. Did it suffice? Some caught on faster than others. Curious I glanced up from my painting to her, wondering if she could 'talk' with me, or if I ought to try again. |
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
The echoes of battle were their backdrop, avid screams, swords meeting swords, knives and daggers plunging into skin and sinew. She couldn’t see any of it, but she could imagine, could picture the vivid lacerations, the cutting schemes, and nearly closed her eyes, away from its horrific hold. Instead, she watched in the dim hollows silence, awaiting an answer from her captor, a reason for her involvement. The Songbird should have known it had nothing to do with her, merely another manifestation of her nothingness, of her non-existence. A flailing means to an end, a fool running late to her errands, a forgotten morsel tucked behind veils and caves. A backdrop, an afterthought, a creature who strived to weave serenity when all the world craved was hate, and even when she stoked every fiber of her being, every note in her songs, the notions still went unanswered. She was naught, no one, a nameless face in a sea of cretins, a flower pressed into a tapestry of thorns. Her actions were not written down in any tales, her benevolence was not courted into legends, her eloquence was not recognized or worthy; he’d snared, beguiled, and befuddled an object with little value. Reality curled and pooled in her stomach, locked consternation in the mindless whims of apprehension and ineptitude, until all she could do was stare across the void. Inferior, pathetic, and disgraceful, her head bowed against the abysmal darkness, the Stygian coils, the morphing of the horizon; she could no longer see the dancing leaves or wide, open canopy. He shifted, tucked behind her as the realm altered, changed, like a storm brewing on the horizon, and still, she said nothing. The Mender didn’t comment on his cowardice, because they’d all been weak before, had felt danger stir and cried in their sleep, and every fiber of her being manifested a potent, powerful boldness, posture stiffening, muscles rigid and unyielding, unsettled as the war waged on, lumbered to an end, and she could only view the shadows, only watch the trees. In these moments, she should have been racing across the hillsides, the labyrinths, bestowing the only true purpose she had to her comrades, to her allies, and instead, she was a trapped bird, feathers clipped, shield bent, armor chipped and broken.
He must have found his courage, because quickly thereafter he resumed his prior form, and she openly stared as he painted his brushstrokes, as he lifted inky plumes and answered her query. The ink dabbled and sculpted the purpose, crusades, sovereigns, the widening chasm, the flanking composition of chaos and mayhem, always crossing and building behind their eyes. “War,” on a whisper, she gave the proper word to his drawing, a title for the clashing figures, and bestowed one quiet, indulgent sigh. Just a pawn, just a tool, just an instrument for injustice and empires – the nymph’s gaze flickered to his, and she saw the remnants of his query, the yearning for information. The furtive collections of their motivations hadn’t made it to the Falls’ spies, hadn’t been lanced or pierced amidst fruition and deceit. Part of her didn’t want to tell him anything, wished to remain quiet and petulant through the beckoning of time, curt and keen until the end of the debacle, and another portion knew it wouldn’t matter. The battle was already coming to a close and the results would be settled amongst dust and ruin. Explanations would evaporate, speculations would ripple, and bitterness, raw, rancorous fringes, would crawl, would unearth, would wander the fields all over again. She had no heart to continue the vast, unnerving spiral of hate. Her voice, listless, saddened, proffered the only remnants of information she knew. “The Basin went to the Falls once, asked for an armistice, offered an alliance.” She’d been there, had waxed poetic, had tried her best to change and alter the wreckage, the pathways of machinations, of calculations, of future, foretold annihilation – even then, her efforts hadn’t mattered. “King Midas refused us.” Would he understand their anger? Their wrath? Honeyed features swam towards the distance, hoped to see something beyond darkness, a sign, an emblem, of victory or defeat, but she was provided with naught. “Sometime later, from what I understand, the Edge was in turmoil. Were you around for the murders?” The series of massacres, the sullen slaughter of so many innocent figures, so many ruined beasts (dear Psyche, forgotten and forlorn, Ode, a child suffering and destroyed), had spiraled out of control, and the clues had only offered hints of how far the treachery reached. She didn’t truly wait for his answer, for his nod, for his token of understanding, continuing with the web of tales, with the ends of history and beginning of new chapters. “The Moon Goddess had corrupted another to do these terrible deeds – so the Edge leaders no longer wished to live in her grasp.” Her stare ran back to his, and gently, firmly, poured the remnants of the acrimonious chalice. “So they chose your home.” There was bound to be more, but she hadn't been thrown into the depths of Machiavellian quandaries and quests; one more forgotten fool left with the frayed ends of avaricious plots. Worthless, the winds sang.
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
Credit URL
| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 16.2 hh :: 6 years |
| Blu |
|
She is better than most at reading me. I think that makes it harder to accept that I habe taken her, because I've found that it is those who have empathy and creativity that I can communicate easily with. It is those exact same horses that least deserve the shadow-laced knife of my talents and the cruelty of this world. I suppose to some extent everyone always needs a bit of unkindness though, if only so that they can overcome it and grow stronger from it - it helps remind you too of what actual happiness is.
Peace, I didn't think it is possible, and more and more I'm thinking I didn't even want it.
"War" she confirmed, and I nod, though she doesn't need my affirmation. It's all around us, more plain than my artwork. She goes on, and I listen, genuinely surprised at what she had to say. Of course, this is her version, and I have learned many times over that the same story can be told very different ways depending on who is speaking. What is she not saying, not sharing, not even privy to in her own land? What would the Falls say in response to these same scenarios, these old events that lay like scars upon their friendship? Each would paint themselves in the better light, it is simply the nature of the individual.
The murders. An ear twitches in response, tipped towards her. My head tilts, lips growing thinner and taut with thought. I recall the murders. I had been present, but not enough to be affected. All the deaths and all the gods have never cast a ripple in my life - I rather like it that way, even if it feels, lonely. Loneliness is not always the worst thing out there.
She finishes, with a serious note that ought to have chilled me, but I only stand there before her, a scrawny boy in a large world. "My home" I think, echoing her voice in my mind. Is this my home? I glance back, dark gaze peering over my shoulder into the blackness that screams and tears itself apart. I turn back, but turn my attention to the grass at my hooves. I shuffle my feet faintly, examining the grasses. I wonder, what makes a home? Is it the yells of my herdmates back there, the very ones I abandoned to save myself? Or is it the land here he live, this spongy, maze-like path of grass and rock where I graze on the daily?
I sigh slowly, then look up at Lena once more. She says they are fighting, because of the Moon Goddess (because she murdered all those horses). I can't help but wonder how this isn't worse than that, how is is they can justify this violence as an answer to violence. I think that they just didn't like their grazing ground.
I wonder what Lena's home is like.
I walk towards her, extending my muzzle like a hand offered for someone who is knocked on the ground. She doesn't have to accept my touch, but the gesture is still there, a meaning written in the lines of my face. I wait for a moment. to see if she'll accept it or not, but then I begin to walk off. Back the way I had seen her coming, back away from these lands which are supposedly my home. I pause after a couple strides, glancing back to be sure she is coming, or not coming if she chooses. I wonder though, what is her home like? Is it better than this, because I like her, but I also like grass.
Will she like me, after all of this? Will she understand me?
How pointless it all is. |
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
Lena the Songbird Posts: 663
| Aurora Basin Time Mender atk: 4 | def: 10.5 | dam: 6.5 |
| Mare :: Unicorn :: 15.3 :: 6 HP: 69 | Buff: NOVICE |
|
Imogen :: Common Kitsune :: Fire
Heather |
The horrors whittled and scored a vivid setting, wild minstrels, savage balladeers, and reality only rang as soon as she ceased talking; because they rang from her lips as well – all the terrors, all the treacheries, all the barbaric requiems and the sinister laments. She closed her mouth and stared, reaching for something, anything, to tear her away from the circumstances, from the actuality, from the segments of disaster and bedlam. They chose your home - her own words strike and strike against her like vicious, entangled chords, because the same thing had happened to her (a dragon-horse in search of her moon goddess, a rising tempest of hate and malice, the undone feeling of complete, utter loss), and some other beings were about to become refugees, and the cycle would continue. Would they become stronger, overthrow those who’d come to conquer? Would they search for another home, like those of the old, old Edge had done, her brethren, her kin, scattering like tiny, nestled stars, cold, indifferent, bitter, and rancorous, clinging to the cavern ramparts and the wide-open abyss? Would they endure, would they persevere, would they live out dreams and ambitions and aspirations, or sink into this newfound quagmire, succumb to the consumption of their credence? The rotation, the patterns, the revolutions continued all the same, but with no changes in sight: for what did war actually solve? She tried to answer, tried to seek the truth, tried to find the answer in absolutions and loyalty, in the armored salvations and promises she’d made lifetimes ago. There were shards of vengeance layered within violence and vehemence, there were lacquered commitments and intentions, there were rich, unsettled purposes, and then there was simply victory – but how far did it go? Would it cycle back towards offspring and children, where they’d be told one side or the other: of miseries, of woes, or of conquest and triumph, where they’d once again grasp kernels of truth and carve it into their own fledgling compositions? Which was right and which was wrong? The war drums beat against her head, and she lowered it for the sake of guidance, for the sake of damnation, for all these hardships sprung and leaping and terrorizing constantly. What did peace feel like anymore? The only syllables gracing her tongue were soft, dulcet, nearly inaudible, fluttering like leaves to the mossy ground. “I’m sorry.” For so many things.
But then he appeared in front of her, shadowy and black all over again, and she lifted her head to peer into his depths, all renewed strength and determination, clenching her jaw, losing the appearance of fragility. Her captor extended his muzzle, like an arm to grasp, like a hand to clutch, and she gazed at it – either a lifeline or deceit. A cloak of bitterness plucked at her shell, and her mind searched and searched for Imogen in the background, for the pulsing wane of supremacy lingering between them (weak and fragile, just one glorious chirp beyond city gates and castle walls, coming closer and closer); she swallowed away the bits of condemnation polluting her mind. Instead of snatching, seizing, or grabbing at his proffered maw, she reached down into the remaining drops of her potency, like she had from the time of her birth, scouring and wishing and dreaming and hoping (then watching it come crashing down all around her time and time again), stuck out her tucked limbs, and rose from her prison nest on her own. Her legs trembled, either from effects of his noose and snare, or the weakness drumming around her, and she felt cold, listless, nefarious beneath the shackle of the canopies and the drowning deluge of mercy. The Songbird’s eyes caught his movements as they wound away, then turning to watch her, beckoning her towards something – anything. And her curiosities compelled, and her resilience remained, and all the wiles and remnants of her persevering poise and prose sparked against the horizon. “Where are we going?”
her passions are made of nothing but the finest part of pure love LENA |
Credit URL
| Hidden Account |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 16.2 hh :: 6 years |
| Blu |
 |
She says she is sorry, and I can't help but respond with something like a shrug. I am sorry for a lot of things too. I am sorry for taking her prisoner, when it really isn't needed. I am sorry for being too selfish and afraid to stand back there and fight, rather than waste my time chaining up healers on the run. I am sorry that I cannot speak, to tell her, it's okay, or, it doesn't matter. Because, well because it doesn't. Sorry doesn't fix anything, so it's just empty words and those are the worst of all. So I shrug it away, dust in the wind of our conversation.
When she doesn't respond to my offered muzzle after a moment, I am hurt. I take it in stride, because I deserve it, but I still always hate that sensation of rejection no matter how minor. I glance away to hide the little sliver she wounded me with, and I walk on. I stop only when I've regained some sense of smile again, and so I try it out when I gaze back over my shoulder at her. She's on her feet, and for whatever mistrust and blame she places on me, is not enough to keep the light tone from her voice or the curiosity either. My smile widens in earnest, pleased that perhaps, just perhaps I can mend this after all.
Unfortunately she asks many questions that are difficult for me to answer. I suppose it's a good thing she's rather more perceptive than most, else this conversation would have died long ago. I want to tell her home, but I haven't the faintest idea of how to represent that idea. So instead I just shake my head, bumping my nose against the tracks I suspect she left behind as I walk back the way I had seen her coming. Each stride I take brushes my whiskers over the earth, and it tickles, and I feel itchy, like I need to roll in said dirt. After a few paces I pause, unable to resist, and drop for a quick roll in the meadow and the soil. Like a sponge my ink leeches off of me, spattering the ground with little flecks of darkness. I rise, seemingly no dirtier than before as the iridescent sheen of my wet-looking pelt continues to shine. I once tried to scrub the ink off myself, tried to wash it off too, but neither worked. I think I was a different color once, long ago...
Shaking myself off as I stand back up, I toss her a rough grin; boyish despite my years. I kick up my heels playfully, then run off abruptly, eyes still tracing the ground for her pattern as I go. |
Tag me only if starting a new thread.
Magic or force permitted any time, aside from death.
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