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The predawn light washed the world in ethereal light, a sort of fleeting and ghostly shine. It turned the world to smoke and fog, gray and silver, blurring and smearing the delicate edges of bamboo shoots and bundles of flowers. Not many would peg Nymeria as a so-called morning person, but that is, indeed, what she was—a crepuscular creature, awakening with the rise and fall of the sun. It was here, in this quiet, tense moment before the sun crested the horizon, that she was most happy, particularly with the presence of mists. Fog crept and curled against the ground, gossamer silver wisps obscuring the details of the Labyrinth. Within its cool kiss Nymeria felt to be a dream, an intangible being without purpose or plots—she was merely an observer, a spirit, her step so delicate as to be almost inaudible despite her size. It was a pleasant feeling. Whilst she certainly enjoyed her war-born body, and had an insatiable appetite for attention, there was something ethereal about being… unseen. Alas, it was not to be; once, in her youth, such ways had been easy and familiar to her. Now, full-grown and thick-bodied, her hooves heavy and muscles swarthy, she couldn’t acclaim to moving with the same stealth. The grullo sighed, drifting to a halt amongst the bamboo shoots. She couldn’t recall ever having seen this forest before—the plants, hard and thick, were certainly unfamiliar, even eerie. Idly her head turned towards the creek bubbling through the small clearing. Slowly, casually, she edged nearer to the water, drawn by the sparkle, the glisten—the song that hummed to her very bones, her very being. She reached—she pulled; the water began to bubble, and boil, and steam. What would happen if she stepped in now? How hot could she force the water to become? Everyone thinks that we're perfect please don't let them look through the curtains |
@Ilios
Yes I lied, don't think about you all the time
All my switchblade words ain't aim to cut your sweet delusions
