The sun burns still, a steady heat too like the heat of fire. Phantom smoke plays chase across his nose. The constant jerk of his weary head tells of a sickness within - wild eyed and raw. Proud hooves fumble more than flaws mark his path, and Asur breathes hoarse on the hot air. Even in the wildest days of youth he never strayed too far from marked boundaries and the thunder-heavy boom of Father's voice. Now... now his only king lies dead amidst a forest scorched to the roots. His legacy is shambles, and this sun feels strange on his sticky hide.
Alone, the fourth prince hesitates to swing his good eye left and right, aware as ever of the sinister, throbbing pain down deep in the rift across his left. He thinks, he may never be whole. He thinks, he is alone - a surging loneliness felt in the marrow of his creaking bones. Asur lends too much thought to wondering who caused this, and his mind winds spirals down into the dark. I am lost. His hooves thud on, vaguely aware that a place called the Foothills will offer him solace - offer him home - but only if he manages to find it.
In his prime, the stallion thinks, he would not wander lost like an idiot foal. He would not lose the first of charming mares he's met in so long, though perhaps it was her goal to lead him on a chase and then outpace him with her slim legs. He cannot know; he may never know. Unrest grows and coils in his gut and breath churns out with labored force. Eventually the silhouette of mountains nears enough that cool air wafts down from their height and Asur lets his heavy head weigh down. The browned grass of a dying season brushes his white limbs, tickles his nose, laughs quietly in his passing. He makes too little imprint on this land, he thinks. His hooves are those of a child. His voice is the distant rumbling of summer thunder, transient and never challenging. He longs to be a storm like his father. He longs to be a catastrophe like his eldest brother. He longs to leave a mark - but his own history has taught him kindness, timidness, obedience. He thinks of all he's suffered and his ears turn back.
It is a wretched life. It is a life not owned, but lived, and he has nobody to blame. At long last the chestnut body staggers in beside the waterfall where he was healed once - cared for once - and ever wary of his own diminishing resilience, the son of kings collapses. His eyes flutter shut, but not in sleep. His limbs tangle up beneath him but he doesn't care - just listens to the roar of water and damns the aching in his bones.
|
| World's Edge Moon Advocate |
| Mare :: Equine :: 16.2 :: 15 Buff: NOVICE |
|
Kali :: Common Griffin :: Draining Clutch
Charks |
08-02-2012, 08:04 PM
(This post was last modified: 08-02-2012, 08:12 PM by Rishima.)
Rishima</style>
the frenzied pace of the mind inside the cell.</style>
Thistle Meadow had served its purpose, a fragrant vale of escape detached from the cruelties of worldly interaction. Her companions proved intriguing and of gentle nature; overall, the interactions and experiences were some she could not regret. Yet the entire affair had held a tinge of bitterness within her mouth, the taste of doubt and swathe of longing. While she found herself rejuvenated by the detour, the absence of her initial companion left the mare discontent and anxious.
She had comforted herself with the thought that in her enthusiasm he had become lost. She berated herself for failing to maintain any supervision of her partner, quietly deciding that the idea of this debacle being her responsibility was quite a pleasant one when compared to its alternative - that he had desired to escape her, that his outward pleasure at her company masked a hidden disgust. And while the foolishness of this idea was not lost on her logical mind, the moon-kissed mare could not fully relinquish some lingering elements of disquietude from her darkened mind. She had feared from the start that Asur's kindness had been merely that, a kindness; now the gnawing renewal of that wonder could not easily be subdued.
It is with this conflict in her mind that she crosses the threshold into the Foothills. Ever the wanderer, she finds it wryly amusing that this land presented borders as yet unbreached by her light footfalls, scents unexplored and flavors untasted. She is a shadow pressed against the cliff face, unobtrusive and silent beneath the sorrowful sun, slender form dipping from sight and reappearing in a flash of ivory and ebony. While she tells herself that this visit bears no purpose but some exploration, the way dark nares tear apart the breeze belies this assertion. She seeks his scent, both to satisfy herself on the issue of his safety.
She does not know what mood shall befall her, should she find him.
The sound of water cascading off rock is delectable to her, a sweet symphony against astute auds that clings against her mind and beckons her hence. In the midst of her musings, the dark mare had not realized just how strong her thirst grew; confronted with the approaching presence of cool liquid, a fire seemed to erupt within her throat, abruptly engulfing her mind and forcing the world into a dizzy tumble before her eyes. The heat, it seemed, had taken more of a toll on her stamina than Rishima initially suspected; she frowns against the sudden pounding in her cranium, berating herself for not stopping to drink sooner.
Lost in the abrupt haze which threatened to engulf more senses than just sight, she turns her mind on the sounds around her, a trick she had learned during many years spent sprawled upon desert sands. Focus returns even as she steps forward, hesitant and wary; slowly she proceeds, cautious to avoid a motion so abrupt that it might send her body into shock. The scent of moist dirt and blooming, unguent mosses draws her onward; eager, she has to reign in her own legs, knowing that the delicate state of her mind and how easily she might upset it.
Hooves sink into dampened ground, the roar of falling water joining that already present in her ears. She does not stop as she approaches the pool, but dips her skull down to drink, forelegs submerged hock-deep and precariously balanced upon loosened rubble. The water courses through parched throat, soothing her brain, the act of swallowing a delightful burn. Vividly cold, the shock of it is enough to drive her from her haze; she has to struggle to keep herself from shying at the icy chill. When she is satisfied, she raises her delicate tiara, eyes shut in pleasure. A sigh is released, and lost against the sound of the rushing water; she dips her nose back to the pool, determined to drink beyond her desires, to quench the heat sickness which proves especially threatening to those of darker pigment.
She does not see the stallion lying prone across the liquid, her quarry now so close; she does not catch his scent, for it is deadened by the water. She knows only the delight of crisp fluid and the expansion of her barrel, the inviting glimmer of the waterfall's lake. It tempts her like a friend, smiling, laughing; she smiles back, and wonders if makes for good swimming.
|
This surge of - emptiness - becomes a lesser beast than he. As heat evaporates from foam-flecked orange skin, the stallion breathes a little easier. The warm light of his left eye flickers open, and the muscular length of his neck stretches along white-painted forelimbs. For a long time only the water's roar answers his teeming mind. He longs for something physical - an outlet. Longs for something more than mere existence though he never wanted such a thing before. Simplicity and kindness had been key to a life of harmony and goodwill, only that had ended in so much flame... in the sting of knives raking down his face.
Asur answers this memory with a snort and spares a glance for the thin blue of a spun-glass sky. It seems almost like water sometimes, like a face of many thoughts and many moods. He swallows, parched throat longing for the nearness of the lake, but his legs say no. Rest, he thinks. Let this madness pass. It is no doubt a symptom of the sun. Perhaps such heat makes fire in his blood to match that in his brain; he always thought of day as kind. Now he wishes for rain and yearns for things long gone. It is unlike a prince to mourn things lost to battle. It is unlike a prince to be so fitful, so... restless.
And he is - restless. The pain in his face recedes as physical exertion cools, and swelling drained by Poppy's remedy no longer impedes vision on the left side. Still, he keeps it closed, as if expecting to see demons when he finally rubs away scabbed blood and old hair. He thinks, this feeling must be one akin to fear - but he ought to be brave. The muffled sound of hoof beats intrudes on his thoughts without permission and Asur lays down his long head, like a wolf awaiting unsuspecting prey.
He certainly cannot deny the sudden, intense surge of satisfaction and denial when the dark mare passes into view. A tremor ripples through his dirty hide, but when Rishima fails to notice the stallion fails to call out. He rolls onto his belly instead, head up, eyes flashing white as they have always flashed. He is a thing of heat and orange dust beneath the cool green of the trees, but she is a thing of shadows and mind dances, and her limbs play like the thinnest strands of silk thread as she moves. He thinks, she is lovely from a distance. He thinks, there was pleasure in the noise of their talk. Alone the mare seems almost joyful, and he feels again the strange intermingling of guilt and anger and confusion. It will not do. It is unbecoming.
With a grunt and a struggle of unsteady hooves, Asur shoves his feet beneath his ribs and hauls upward. His toes cut the soft soil, and his tail writhes, snapping against the faded sheen of chestnut flanks. When did he become an old man? When he ran from what he might have claimed, perhaps - or when he started growing quiet and content to watch the world. Filled with a sort of restive anger, Asur spreads his limbs and gives himself a hearty shake, the thick braid of his mane slapping one muscular shoulder. It has begun to fray, he thinks as he turns. Perhaps soon that will be a memory as well, and all he has will be his name - Asur. Never the strongest of four children, but perhaps kindest of them all. A trait that won him nothing, in the end.
He should stop thinking, he thinks, as he blinks his single eye down at the mare. She will have heard; she will be watching, and he has no words - just the noise of his breath and the weariness his body speaks. After a moment Asur moves, his strides lacking their old suspension, tired now and strung out and ill-fitting for his strong bones. "Rishima." Her name leaves him first, without expression. Then the stallion hesitates, his body drawn taut just before the water line, his ears twitching, his glance unsure. "This is a... strange coincidence." Asur drops his head, the picture of humility and moreso - wariness. He is not sure. He has not been sure since that shadow fell on him and took half of his sight.
He dares not take it back until he knows himself again.
|
| World's Edge Moon Advocate |
| Mare :: Equine :: 16.2 :: 15 Buff: NOVICE |
|
Kali :: Common Griffin :: Draining Clutch
Charks |
08-06-2012, 10:28 PM
(This post was last modified: 08-06-2012, 10:29 PM by Rishima.)
Rishima</style>
the frenzied pace of the mind inside the cell.</style>
From the icy water her lips rise, liquid satisfaction drips off coarse whiskers into the rippling pond, disappearing into the spray of the surging fall. Her eyes travel up with her skull, squeezed shut against the cruel brutality of the world, a desperate struggle to preserve the beauty of the moment. Yet she knows that this moment cannot last any longer than its allotted time, that every moment is fleeting and to be enjoyed in the course of its lifespan. So she opens her eyes, lashes fluttering against the barrage of sunlight, and smiles.
But the smile dims beneath the sudden assault of movement from across the pond. Like a cornered bird she darts up, not so he can see but in a manner still tangible, abrupt mental stimulus triggering a chain of sweeping emotions and cautious anxiety, a nervous energy stoked by the flash of orange that dares flicker behind the brusque cascade of natural shower. Recognition was not immediate, or even certain; in fact, she was staunchly aware of the fact that she could not know for sure that this being was the one she anticipated, and she held fast to that uncertainty.
Dark eyes on his stirring form, she steps gingerly through marshy grass, seeking the unknown out and disposing of all trepidation regarding what she might find. Milky tresses slash against the sharp buzz of insects, some release of her energy needed against the tight anticipation of impending companionship. The fluid motion of sinewy muscle is subtle and slow, long legs moving in stunted steps. Across the water, he stirs and rolls, a flashing creature of fire who draws her gaze and infects her mind, a staunch contrast against her own form of shadow and moonlight, a conflict of creatures that perhaps should have been left alone.
The pond is not so large, yet she feels an expanse growing between them with every instant. He rises to his feet and she watches, suddenly still beside the water, a silhouette disturbed with light that flutters between speech and mute. Lapping waves kiss charred hooves, a flutter of noise in the impeccable still. Somewhere far off, a raven caws; a magpie echoes its cacophonous call. She flicks an ear back, listening to the cries, but her eyes remain latched onto the ochre beast, hooded and dark, refusing to give anything away until he does.
And he does - oh, he does. There is weariness in his walk, but that does not burn. No, it is his voice, flat and disinterested, uncaring and worn. It speaks her name without caress, the expulsion of a word that bears no meaning to him. And why should it? she thinks, suddenly bitter. Of course it means nothing- she means nothing. It was foolishness that led her to believe otherwise, to imagine that he had seen within their conversation the spark of friendship her shadowy mind had dared create. The rest of his words glide by, passing soldiers with no care for her and to whom she will pay no heed. His body language shows enough, and she responds with her own motion, a pulling back of her neck, the raise of her crown to watch him, expression closed against his judgement.
"Asur." There is no chill in her response, simply emptiness. She hurts, hurts for caring enough to seek him out, for coming here just to he might turn her down. "I did not mean to disturb you again." A swish of her tail bites through the awkward conversation; there is something hard in her voice, something to mask the soft sense of disappointment. She watches him and wants to shout, to tell him that if he had sought to leave her, he might have done it then. He might have said. That she would not have cared, that she was used to it. She watches him and wants her to cross the water, to smile at her as he had before and break the distance growing between them. But she does not yell, and he does not approach, and across the water he seems to shrink, to grow smaller as she moves to cut him from her thoughts. Her eyes have left his face.
She moves to turn, to leave him, right fore bending and stepping, legs crossed, weight shifted to send her away. Yet she does not leave; instead she pauses, a stillness overtaking her, and suddenly, abruptly, emotion catches up with her. She is angry. "I came here to make sure you were alright." And suddenly her voice is not empty, it is not smooth; it crackles with a dark fire, a muted flame that creeps into her eyes. Quiet she speaks, whisper threatening him from across the damp expanse. "There was no coincidence. But now I think my... care, may have been misguided."
Now she is done. Now she does not leave, but waits, waits for his response, for his anger or his disgust, and hopes for his understanding.
|
He sees the world as if through glass: pale, brittle shapes all dancing in the glare of sunlight. For a moment, nothing touches him - not wind, not daylight, not the soft slurpy noise of her more graceful steps. He is a fire contained, huge echoes of uncertainty and eagerness and passion displaced - coloring the vibrant glow of heated eyes. At once he reads the indecision in her step, the glow of curiosity and... what? She stares at him as if he is a ghost, and stole the heart from between her ribs - as if there is no warmth, and never was. He thinks, she is too cold. She is a beast of moonlight and smooth shadows, things Asur has never understood. He is a beast of hunger and of daylight, and his hooves move even as he stands and watches, wondering at the significance of this, their second meeting.
In his mind, things all fell to coincidence. He spoke words to ease the tension and proclaim this all a great misunderstanding, but she tossed them all aside without bothering to even chew their meaning. In the air between them, air oppressive in its stillness, outside noises intrude and Asur turns briefly to blink at the shadow of a bird, the muted splop of silver scales on the pond's clear surface. His head hangs low. His tail moves briefly, chasing at some irritation wholly in his own mind. Still, his long ears twitch back toward Rishima. Her words are strangers to him, marching in military lines and holding rifles ready, quiet now but ever ready... Slowly, his striped head moves up in wariness - surprise. The stillness in her tone speaks sorrow - such sorrow - that he would cross the water just to touch dark skin, to breathe approval into her dark eyes. He has never known a soul so chained within itself, so dependent on the outside world for shaping... Something in the stillness of her body makes him ache, makes anger chafe at wounds already rubbed well raw.
"Again?" His deep voice echoes out over the water, gravel on smooth glass. No longer does he watch; he steps forward with that strident grace of his, forgetting for an instant that he is no prince here and he bears no purpose. The moment gives him purpose. The clean pull of muscle under his shoddy hide speaks of power, though the cant of his head and the warmth of his eyes speak only sorrow to echo her own; confusion. He says nothing as she turns to leave; his every fiber vibrates with a need for understanding, with a fervent energy now given toward her, bent not toward self destruction but toward insight, toward whatever hurt he has carved into this mare - for it also aches in him, this pain he's made. He is not a beast of callous action. He is not the soldier his eldest brother grew into, nor the predator his sister was, nor the iron-voiced spirit of his father. He is adrift from them forever now, wrapped only in the fabric of his own making - and it is soft. He is soft. He wants only peace, and never to cause such darkness in the inkwell of her heart. He is flame; he is shadow's natural companion.
The torrent of her voice runs over him, drowns out the roar of water, sweeps his ears back until Asur can only frown and feel exceptionally foolish. He grinds his teeth against the spark of anger in his chest, biting back rebuke. To think she ran him off on purpose... Though perhaps she had, he thinks there is sincerity in the hard lash of her words. He thinks, she is accustomed to being the one overlooked - turned away. He had done wrong, without even doing. He steps forward until his pale hooves splash against cold water, and then closer - yards away - he bows his great head so the crest of his neck rolls up, the fraying edges of his braid hang down, the warmth of his eyes scorches the dark of fertile banks. "It was beyond kind to follow the trail of one who left you." Asur glances up, his gaze open as he attempts to meet hers. "I can only beg forgiveness, lady, as I am not... whole." He tilts his head, forelock spreading over the long, slow-healing cut. "Once your fleetness took you from my vision you were lost to me, and I thought... you might prefer being so. I was in error, borne of weaknesses within myself. I am not... all right." Here wry laughter superceded the honest solemnity of his tone. "But right enough to apologize." Another dip of the great head, more brief than the first. "Should you choose to run, I will be left again unable to discern your path."
|
| World's Edge Moon Advocate |
| Mare :: Equine :: 16.2 :: 15 Buff: NOVICE |
|
Kali :: Common Griffin :: Draining Clutch
Charks |
Rishima</style>
the frenzied pace of the mind inside the cell.</style>
She follows his movements with her eyes, stillness in every line of musculature, dark body calm against the barrage of her mind. The sound of his hooves breaking into still water is the only thing she can focus on from behind her cloud of hazy discordance; it lulls her back into her dark mind, anger fading away as abruptly as it appeared, descending back into the abyss of shade from whence it erupted. His words are like hooks that clench against her anger, gentle and slender, seeking to pry away the shadows she wraps herself in. Yet she is reluctant to dispose of her cautious fury; it is as much a warning as a safety net, a gesture towards some deeper sense of disaster, a worrisome and inescapable depth of fire that blazes beneath the masks and moonlight. She is warning him, I bite when you hurt me. She is warning him, I am not as strong as I appear. She has seen hearts turn to hatred when faced with the darker aspects of her nature, and she has no interest in enduring that again. Perhaps she is a fool for shutting herself out to the world, taking her distrust and wearing it as a shield.
His voice is like gravel, conflicting against the motion of his body. She watches him bow, and finds the elegance foolish. His body is all torn muscle and controlled steps, humility and apology. The ripe scarring of his eye still glitters with raw despair. Her dark ears flick back, grazing pale mane and suddenly wary as he calls her kind. Was it kindness that compelled her to pursue him? Yes, to a point; she did want to ensure his safety. There was no lie in the good intentions behind her acts, the care that nagged, propelling her into action, but curiosity played its own part in her decisions - all of her decisions - and perhaps that troublesome trait was more to blame for their current predicament than any niceties she may have felt. Was it guilt that swept over her now, a mist of sudden embarassment that he should think her so selfless? The slightest twinges of repent for her fury, the realization that she had come here anticipating just such a reaction, and could not blame him for his delivery?
And as he begs forgiveness, she is abashed, but none of this shows from behind her facade. His explanation is an offering of peace, and perhaps itself a rebuke, a reminder that she should not have led where he could not follow, that the soldier had taken blows which hindered his activities. Had she been alone so long that she had forgotten how to account for others? She remembers a time when she cared for everyone, when she led foals through desert sands and pulled burrs from her brothers' hooves. Had she really turned so callous that she would start at the slightest brush of disapproval, create discord where there should be trust? You are not entirely to blame, she reminds herself, and this only increases her disbelief at the whole disaster, her bland frustration at the spiraling intricacies of interactions which she seems so keen to unravel.
This is foolishness, she thinks. And foolishness deserves only one response.
"It seems we have misunderstood one another." She releases her voice into the expanse between them, dark tones over lapping waves bearing no tint of emotion but the simplest observation. Above, a hawk screams in satisfaction, catching sight of some hapless animal below. "Jumping to conclusions that neither could validate." Movement pursues her words, sudden relaxation of muscle moving into tension, steps breaching the pool, hooves searching for purchase against the rocky floor. She approaches him with stillness; she is monochromatic, a shadow that gives nothing away, simply follows the will of its maker. She meets him at the halfway mark, water lapping at sweaty thighs, and stops, black eyes focused on his braids, the blaze of his face, the curve of his neck. "But perhaps we can form new opinions." There is a moment of hesitation, a pause where she wonders if her decision is right; but it is too late to retract now, and so she continues on, taking care to pass around the right side and stay within his sights. The rich aroma of him buffets her as she crosses the mass of his face, her body mere feet from him, her eyes drifting past him and towards the approaching woods. Water foams about her heels; she is in line with his own form now, and then just past it, and suddenly her weight shifts forward. She kicks up her heels, a spray of liquid pursuing the motion; like crystals the droplets rain from the sky, flying towards the bronzed steed even as she prances away, deeper into the crisp pond.
Laughter peals and refracts off the lake; her voice rings out as she draws to a stop, turning back to face him. "There!" she cries, dark eyes glittering with a youthful fire, "Now we are even!" There is a plea behind the merriment of her voice, an apology and a hope that they might regain the camaraderie left behind atop the butte. She gazes at him with shining eyes, uncaring if her thinks her foolish - the delight of cool water on her darkened sides has washed away all but the most stubborn of her doubts, and she has decided that she will not stoop back into misery today.
|
The subtle warmth of Asur's single open eye lingers a long time on her face - reading the play of muscle and the silent expression of her body. For the space of many breaths, her silence speaks rage. Muscles tense to brittle strings, and Asur can but wait and listen, and hope. He is rewarded by Rishima's eventual relaxation, and the measured cadence of her voice. She moves as she speaks and the stallion's lopsided gaze gives chase. He turns as she passes, intrigue and interest written on his own body. He senses forgiveness; he senses a lessening of pain. His own heart beats in joy.
Asur turns as the dark mare wades through the mirrored surface of the pond. Her own shape ripples alongside her; though the sun beats down unholy heat the water promises refreshment. The red stallion steps forward. Suddenly though everything in front of him erupts; awkward geysers kick up from the mare's hind hooves and Asur staggers back to rear, ears slicked against his neck, his nostrils pinched to snort back jets of water like steam. Tail wringing, he slams back into the pond with a mighty huff. "Even?" Stray hairs lie plastered to his face and the bulging arch of his neck. For half a moment Asur hesitates to smile - the fiercest kind of grin, carnivorous. "I have never played to tie!"
In a moment the stallion bounds forward, his movements only slightly impeded by the weight of water and the weariness of his own limbs. He feels invigorated; he feels light. He has a friend, a true friend, whose faith has been tested once and reaffirmed. He has a home, and green grass, and the chime of water around his toes. He forgets loss. He charges for her and leans back onto his hind legs, nose brought lightly forward to snap harmlessly at her withers. His forelimbs paddle, flailing to kick water up into her face, too, and erase the strain of mental duress with some physical exertion.
|
| World's Edge Moon Advocate |
| Mare :: Equine :: 16.2 :: 15 Buff: NOVICE |
|
Kali :: Common Griffin :: Draining Clutch
Charks |
Rishima</style>
the frenzied pace of the mind inside the cell.</style>
There is a lingering edge of doubt, a moment of frozen curiosity where she wonders idly if he will be disgusted, if he will find her sudden antics simply too much, and does not care. Like dust caught in a sunbeam, discomfort and fear float aimlessly through the air, suspended against the bright backdrop of simple nonchalance, an abrupt delight in the simple act of living. She has fought with this stallion long enough, not a physical fight but a barrage of wills and personalities; a dance as much as a battle, two personalities weaving and crashing against one another, subtle conflict and vibrant pleasure in the company of one another, tainted with the drawbacks of disastrous misunderstanding. She is worn, she is weary; she enjoys his friendship too much to break upon him, too much to let her mind stand between them any longer.
The moment passes, the brief flicker of endless space suddenly drawn short, and they are close, locked together by the bright glitter of their eyes and the searing ferocity of their minds. She laughs at his violent response to her sudden onslaught, laughs in the face of his feral nature, laughs joyfully at the effects of her actions, the dampened mane lying flush against his muscular neck, the darkened patches of moist hair upon his chest. Her mirth does not end as he speaks, but quiets, and as his words finish she shoots her own over them, a mocking taunt in her accented tones. "Nor do I, but you are but a poor invalid, so I thought I might-"
The words die in her throat, smothered and drowned by his sudden movement, the shrill cold of water splashed across her face. She gasps loudly, dark sides working furiously to take in oxygen, sputtering her indignation and slashing charred hooves against troubled water. She rises onto slender hinds, pivoting and veering to avoid his attack, narrow ears tight against her skull. The unfortunate wave marks a path across her right side, dark splatters from crown to barrel marking pinpoints where the water struck her, sharp needles of refreshment and painful relief from the summer sun. Solidly she lands, and scrambles, dished hooves seeking purchase against the sandy bottom of the pond, before lunging at him, past him, so very close to him, shoving out her hooves to force waves against the sky. She lashes out with teeth too, a sharp nip aimed towards the dock of his fiery tail.
She grins back at him, sending one last kick into the still waters as her body draws away from his, the momentary closeness lost as she tries to flutter away, determined to have the last laugh. Oh, she knows how to fight; Life with twin brothers was ever a competition, a battle of minds and love and laughter. If he wants a war, he will get one.
In the oppressive light of day, she laughs.
|
|
.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
