chernobyl

i was not caught, i crossed the line
i live among you, well disguised

Pregnant as shit – fat as fuck, you could say, she waddles. Her thick tail tosses more than normal, even in this zero degree weather that is completely bugless. It's taken her a day or two to make her way slowly to the Threshold. She doesn't follow paths or the main roads but she carves her own way through the oaks and then through the carpet of aspens blanketing the snowy hillsides. Even in her condition she'd rather not travel next to anyone, they just might talk and not have a direction. A risk she'd rather not take.

Guilt doesn't usually factor into her daily life, but these hormones sure are a dumb bitch. A few months ago she had a little oopsy, defying her Queen (well, one of them, the grouchiest one). There is no stealing, but Bull had a vendetta to settle. You can probably guess the outcome. Though nothing bad really came of it, she's almost sure Isopia just might know what she did, even if the victim of her attempted theft does not know.

The gift of a new, willing face, maybe?

Chernobyl's admittedly horrible at social interactions for the most part. She would also venture to guess that she's most likely horrendous at recruiting as well. Worth a try, right?

The sprinkling of snow shaking from the trees and thudding to the ground below makes her ears stick up, scooping the sounds carefully from the quietness. She can see the silhouette of horse, a wing jutting from behind and when he shifts, two wings, his coat pale and blotched with dark. She vaguely recognizes the figure, but cannot quite place from where from such a distance. She watches patiently from behind a half-veil of long, tumbly bangs that spiral down her face and curl against her thorned horn.

Her skin jumped and her blood went cold when the crack reverberates across the vast paleness, echoing off the hillocks and through the thin trunks of the aspens. Another crack made her retreat one or two steps, her hooves dragging through the fluff with a little hesitation. The other horse seems equally startled, or interested, or confused – she's not sure which. Her curiosity draws her normally lithe, but now pregnant, black body from the shadows. She can see him now, closer than before to catch the details of his face and the unique edges of his patches. “Ugh.” her tongue clicks and she groans, stopping and shifting her weight to one hind ankle. The hatching egg still snags her attention, but that is surely the only thing – right? Because this foolish asshole threw shit as me once.

She is in no mood for childish antics or games of mischief at the hands of some winged little gremlin. Why oh why does it have to be him!?