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larue
Death was not something the lemon drop had dealt with thus far in her candy-coated life. Aisling, her sweet and mischievous mother, had sheltered her well. And Johnny, her playful and carefree father, had done nothing more than nap a few seasons away. That was the closet the young tartlet had ever come to death: the temporary absence of her sire.
That quiet ache in her small, lemony heart was nothing compared to Erebos’s soft whisper that was magnified by decibels through the pain that reverberated through it. The filly’s pert, happy, tail-flicking arrival paused mid-brazen-step; her lemon-freckled ears perked forward and her mischievous teal eyes dimmed as they widened. “Wha—?” but her perky, curious question was cut off as her eyes hit the dark, still (—too still—), collapsed body.
Her head cocked slightly, gaze drilling into the Reaper’s body. Though the filly had never directly interacted with her leader, there was something permanent about him that her youth had created. He had been the leader of the herd she was born into. He had been present in the Basin for as long as she could remember—and as long as anyone else could rememberer (the undercurrents foals pick up on in conversations or off-hand phrases).
Her candy, lemon skin rippled as something hot flashed by it; her ears flicked towards the sensation, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. And her attention, which was usually volatile, was entirely focused on the Reaper and the son that stood alongside him.
Slowly, hesitantly, the lemon drop shuffled forward—so much youth still clung to her lanky body, especially now, in this mortal hour of unrelenting change. An uncertain glance was given to Erebos as she approached, her head softly dropping the only possession she held: the small vial of potpourri. Though it was a useless trinket, it was all the filly had to offer. And, as was with youthful ignorance, possession was the only thing she could think of giving to physically embody the loss—though she knew her loss was but a shadow compared to blue-stained man already standing above the fallen Lord.
“I’m sorry,” her whisper was small and quiet, barely audible. But she did try to lean her small, smooth, lemon-candy skin against @Erebos ‘s long, tall limbs in some sort of silent (uncharacteristic) solace. Her ears flickered uncertainly just as her eyes looked down sadly, not knowing what to do with this new, despondent feeling in her thus-far-impish chest.
That quiet ache in her small, lemony heart was nothing compared to Erebos’s soft whisper that was magnified by decibels through the pain that reverberated through it. The filly’s pert, happy, tail-flicking arrival paused mid-brazen-step; her lemon-freckled ears perked forward and her mischievous teal eyes dimmed as they widened. “Wha—?” but her perky, curious question was cut off as her eyes hit the dark, still (—too still—), collapsed body.
Her head cocked slightly, gaze drilling into the Reaper’s body. Though the filly had never directly interacted with her leader, there was something permanent about him that her youth had created. He had been the leader of the herd she was born into. He had been present in the Basin for as long as she could remember—and as long as anyone else could rememberer (the undercurrents foals pick up on in conversations or off-hand phrases).
Her candy, lemon skin rippled as something hot flashed by it; her ears flicked towards the sensation, but it was gone as quickly as it had come. And her attention, which was usually volatile, was entirely focused on the Reaper and the son that stood alongside him.
Slowly, hesitantly, the lemon drop shuffled forward—so much youth still clung to her lanky body, especially now, in this mortal hour of unrelenting change. An uncertain glance was given to Erebos as she approached, her head softly dropping the only possession she held: the small vial of potpourri. Though it was a useless trinket, it was all the filly had to offer. And, as was with youthful ignorance, possession was the only thing she could think of giving to physically embody the loss—though she knew her loss was but a shadow compared to blue-stained man already standing above the fallen Lord.
“I’m sorry,” her whisper was small and quiet, barely audible. But she did try to lean her small, smooth, lemon-candy skin against @Erebos ‘s long, tall limbs in some sort of silent (uncharacteristic) solace. Her ears flickered uncertainly just as her eyes looked down sadly, not knowing what to do with this new, despondent feeling in her thus-far-impish chest.
sugar, spice
not everything nice
not everything nice
;-;
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