This is a me and you thing.
Mine.
Words, phrases- things that her small mind has long thought on: the picture and image of a dark colored man rising from the water with reddened droplets and bones jutting from the skin. A carcass, graceful and strong- speaking with a voice that provoked both intrigue and fear. She remembers the dark eyes and the smell of iron and earth, of blood and ash- she recalls the feels of the air around the man and how all of sudden her world had become much wider.
This is a me and you thing.
She mulls on it like she did then, thinks about how had dropped her off with the blue roan woman… Heartfire, Dagger- names for a single face. Swollen and sickly she’d hugged her tight and even in the face of danger she’d been there: crying out as hell itself tore asunder the very earth beneath her feet and all the sickness of the world made her lung heave. She recalls the brief sight of him: the smoke and ash making him little more than a shadow as she ran- as she fled the chaos.
Mine.
His- she is his, and has been for more of her shortening life than anyone before. Briella is kin only to void: to the afterlife, to death and hunger. She recalls the taste of flesh, and of plant, and she wrinkles her small nose as she walks away from Ether and Cimmerian… as she trails off around the island and avoids the Kelpie prowling the shore: the clattering hooves on sand that are unfamiliar. The whale, does interest her, but its fading and when she discovers it is not edible- she ultimately decides to abandon the thing in pursuit of something else: something more primal- and someone she has long wished to see again.
Baby.
He hadn’t wanted to name her, to even know her name- he had enemies… and she knew in her own way; but little did she care. Still she continues walking the shore, drifting and peaceful in the rising sun, as if if she were little more than a mariner’s ghost in the very fog and wake of crash and tragedy; but her wounds are healed and while still skinny: still sick, she seems different.
Thicker and taller she has grown a small amount, enough to make it more evident that smutty dark patches on her body would stay and grow: that her blonde mane and tail would become something of an impossible mixture of gold and silver alike… and most of all: the light hits her eyes and the color has changed.
They are blue: cold and silvery, almost white.
Frost grows on her fur, slowly melting as she takes a breath in the Spring morning.
His image is easy to see, to peer at from the distance, and she closes it without hesitation: walking and springing forward to the bone and shadow: to someone who had not abandoned her, and she stands before Dovev- sauntering forward from sea mist and morning sun with a radiant chill penetrating the air around her as those eyes brighten and magic flows wildly. She stares, and the ice and frost on the plants around her crackles and rattles.
“I’m going to help.” she states it, poignant and sure of herself- the cold air washing over him and her energy near exhausted as she feels the push back from the pestilent magic of the plague. “Sorry I ran.” the latter is a tender plea, and she wobbles.
It fades, the chill and ice- the remnants of winter gone and her abilities seemingly faded or lesser in potency. Yet? She waits- watches and lingers: watches Dovev with a smile. “Expelliarmus is dead, the Valley is gone- even the Chamber fell long ago. I wasn’t there to see it, but… I know I stayed in Pangea once before and nothing terrifies me like the God-Mage and his hatred and contempt for this world. I’m sorry I left, I had to help- I can’t lose anyone else.”
She blinks, her voice the same but this time there is an accent, ancient and older: the lilting and slurring sound of someone born in the Valley.
@[Dovev]