[open] In light of the seven hells, I came to you

[Brine]

Her mane was entangled with thorns and twigs, created in a mess of autumn morning wind. Trees around her—half naked and half clothed—allowed subtle light to escape through orange, red, and yellow blinds. As she exhaled, the soft crunch of fallen leaves crushing beneath her weight echoed in her ears against a silent backdrop.
 
It was a crisp morning, frost coating the tree trunks like silver spray paint. Nothing but the distant coo of song birds breaking the air. Her wings wrapped around her like a security blanket, hiding the scars along her ribs as if to pretend they never even existed.
 
Laying down was often a vulnerable position, but for Brine it was her only escape to safety.
 
Her blue roan coat was tainted from ill-kempt feathers and lack of bathing, a dull smoky black verses the vibrant shimmery blue she could sometimes be. Her throat was heavy, her body malnourished. It was as if the little bird had no ambition to live at all. Perhaps she didn’t.
 
It may very well be her intention to laze about her life until eventually her body withers away into a pile of broken feathers, and dust.

B r i n e