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Once more the deep voice reaches out. She would have protested if not for the impending fatigue that starts to blanket her conscious. With the smell of iron wafting into the air about her, like the sweat and grime left over from the spar – she reluctantly lifts her head, trilling lightly on her tongue in agreement. A wash would do wonders. It would free her from the oppressive illusion of her current state – or so the girl begins to think so. For now her wings hang clutched to her sides, unwilling to break from the comfort of her heavy body. Cradling into the most comfortable spot they might afford for the time being.
With the heroine’s pride wavering in the light of that moon, she realizes that the stallion is approaching her. It’s hard to tell when each breath feels like it might be her last – the pain, not entirely new – though fresh, and far more serious than she’s ever encountered, seems to have affected her in an unusual way. Or perhaps it is the first experience that makes it seem more painful than it should be?
Volterra pauses, as if to offer a shoulder. But in the wake of her near dream-state, she lets out a dismissive rumble and forces her head and limbs ahead. Ru would do her best to go on with as little help as possible. She can sense the future ahead of her would not afford her such comforts, and thus, forgoes his good intentions. In the back of her mind she is however, thankful for his presence. It is becoming something other than the monster, the phantom in the dark – although odd, and unexpected, it itches the youth’s curious mind.
Slow at first, with sharp huffs and a growing grimace that pulls at her otherwise indifferent face, she manages to follow. But of course the question comes, receiving an annoyed huff from her lungs – casting her raised brow at the stallion. Unaware if he should catch her expression or not; despite the obvious answer riding along her back and shoulders she waits. Only for a brief moment, before she nods her head in confirmation. A dull, chirping sound that confirms the impairment, the crutch and the barrier that makes interacting with other so fickle and unpredictable.
She should expect everyone to wonder and question her state. But ever time they ask it’s a jarring reminder of what she lacks. To avoid his gaze, she glances down at the golem instead. Watching how it moved, how it breathed with light, with some sort of hidden fire fueling its existence. She wondered if he could make them talk, or if they too were fated to go unsung – manipulated and cast out, when their purpose had run its course.
In an attempt to change the subject, her cracked and unformed voice coos out into the darkness. Nudging her muzzle towards the golem, curious by its presence. Perhaps he might share something about that instead?
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