and let me kick you off a bungee

I have reached the age where my life no longer depends so heavily on my failure of a mother, where I grow far more independent and venture out into the world unaccompanied, a reckless youth that unsettles the population with an eyeless stare and harsh commentary— I am shunned by the Throat, altogether they despise me deep in the blackness of their souls, for in mourning I told them to stop being so childish (I, a child, told them to stop being so childish). They wept for a man I did not know the name of (I know his name now, Gaucho the Wildfire, a revered warrior who fell into madness, who crumbled beneath the weight of Mortality, who bowed his head to Death), who I did not care for. They shed tears when I could not, felt their hearts yearning for the blazing fires that scorched his body to once again burn bright against the landscape— but he laid cold and dead, achieving what I had so eagerly sought, what I so desperately needed.

It was at a time when my face burned each day as the sun struck the wounded skin, summoned from it a stench that made me gag, repulsed by the smell of my own sizzling flesh. I spent hours tucked beneath Momma's wing, hidden away from the world as though I was something to be ashamed of, I was her immodesty, her mistakes (she hates me)— she led me astray, guiding me closer and closer to the endlessly roaring ocean before revealing me to the world, before even considering feeding me. I was not her pride and joy, her whole world, the child she dotes on and adores— I am a burden, a sin of impurity, an object to be thrown away when she cannot handle the life of another (she can barely manage herself, I can feel the protruding ribs and hear the raspy inhales, smell the fresh blood caking the skin beneath her wings). The smell sickens me, banishes my appetite into the depths and keeps me at a distance from her, assaulting my senses are her sobs and stenches, my sensitive nose and ears that are compensating for the loss of my eyes become a curse rather than a blessing.

I leave the Throat for the first time since my birth (I was an outsider to them, a child brought in bloody and wounded by a malnourished woman, a child who ran her mouth at the worst of times), navigating the world through a blurry mess of shapes and vibrant colours— my world has changed since The Shift, where I went from an underwhelmingly small presence in an overwhelmingly big nothingness, to a small presence in a world consumed by reds and blues and yellows, tinges of orange and purple and green, defining a whole new world for me. The intensity of this change in scenery (from an endless void to a vast amount of colours and information) crippled me, tumbling into a screaming mess that ached and let my throat go raw from the agony. It took too long to adjust to it, for my brain to settle down and begin to register the flow of information coursing through it. It had been a sensory overload, an overwhelming miracle that sent me spiraling into a tantrum that lasted what felt like eternity. I could not eat, could not sleep, could not function during the days of adjustment— my body could only handle one thing, and those basic needs were not what was important at the time.

So now I make my way through what must be a mass of trees, they barely stand out against the crisp blues (it's Frostfall, of course it's going to be so damn cold). My sides have suffered a few unfortunate run ins with trees and bushes of varying shapes and sizes, one particular incident leaving a particularly irritated wound on my left shoulder, seeping from it is the thick metallic liquid I've come to know too well. It's not the scratch that unsettles me, but the smell that makes its way into my nostrils, the feelings that claw at my stomach and howl. It's Momma, baring her teeth and tearing at the newborn flesh, so close to taking away the gift she'd just given— life.

Not that I wanted it anyway (then or now).

There's warm blotches appearing, soft voices mingling together, a gathering of what could be at least three horses. There's no possible way for me to recognize them with just their heat signatures, so I creep closer and closer, swallowing thickly as my stomach churns and shoulders stiffen. I am not courageous, not eager to reveal my disfigured features to strangers, to plummet into a place I do not belong. This is the beginning of a feeling I will grow too familiar with, a presence will come to know all too well (Anxiety creeps through my veins, ghosting up my spine and grasping my gut with a rough hand). I push beyond this adolescent fear, this newly developed sense of inferiority, this dark comparison— I am odd, a mangled babe to be given pity and shamed, shunned and hated. A disgrace, a burden, a mongrel. I dare to enter their conversation, to register each figure individually, to take the time to understand what differentiates each equine.

There is a woman, built sturdily with broad shoulders and thick legs, steady on her feet and powerful. Her air is a mystery, a whisper of trouble, a dangerous woman with a twisted tongue. Another woman, poised and precious, refined and less broad shouldered— petite compared to the other two. She is crowned royalty, regal and fair with her words  firm but not harsh. Welcoming. And the last, antlered, refined, well proportioned. There's little to know, strained ears and a head cocked as if that will give me a better sense of each character, as if my adolescent intuition will gift me with knowledge on who these strangers are. All I caught was the introduction of Hotaru, Lady of the Basin— the formality is enough to provide confirmation, prestige taints her blood.

I do not speak, only wait. Who will be the first to look, to ask who I am, what's wrong? Where's my mother? Who will comment on the disgusting appearance of my face, the shredded skin on my sides, on the mess that I am? I listen closely, I listen well— who will it be?

-- wandaaaaa~<3 val needed to get out and do things, so i decided why not chuck her in here to meet her aunt nym c': also this post is a mess bc im coming back after my lo n g hiatus