01-14-2019, 04:25 PM
living for the past
because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
Wishbone doesn’t realize how sick she truly is until a voice speaks. She’d entered the area completely unaware that there were others around, especially when there are little places to hide among the snow drifts and barren trees. Perhaps in the summertime, she might be less concerned; the foliage grows thick near the River with the plethora of water availability and it would be easy to hide among the shade and brush. Yet here in the winter, everything is barren and bright in whatever sunlight is graced to them for the day.
Droplets of chilly river-water sprinkle themselves into the sky as Wishbone startles, her feminine head jumping away from the river to twist and look at the stranger suddenly. The action causes a flare of feverish pain to run through the muscle of her neck and she winces at the sensation. The voice belongs to a dark stallion — a seemingly healthy stallion. Fatigue lingers behind the amber of her eyes, but Wishbone forces her thoughts away from pity and toward Loic.
“I hate to say it, but winter’s fucked me up this time around.” She’s always had the mouth of a sailor, and the unique honey-whiskey of her voice (rough and low from a childhood spent in clouds of volcano sulfur yet somehow laced with that sweetness of feminity) truly adds to the effect. It’s a wonder she managed to steer clear of obsessive swearing in her days of leading Nerine’s meetings, though it would certainly be a story to tell of the Khaleesi rallying her Leviathans with profanities of encouragement.
The strength of the dark man becomes obvious when he asks for information. Wishbone looks him over perhaps a bit more critically now, analyzing if she’s seen him before along her journey outside Beqanna. She’s only just come back herself (and this might be one reason why the plague has hit her with such a tiger-roar of ferocity), but Beqanna is her home nonetheless. “You’re in the River, a common territory of Beqanna.” A violent cough shakes her entire body at the end of this sentence, so forceful Wishbone wonders if her children will slide from her loins prematurely.
Thankfully, the coughing fit wavers and leaves her sore and drained of breath. “This entire land is called Beqanna.” It’s a diverse country, full of beach-fronts and mountains and snowstorms and dark forests. Wishbone leans down to take another sip of water, unconcerned that the stranger might injure her. He seems to be safe enough, or at least willing to risk his life when she is so obviously ill. “I’m Wishbone,” she says as she pulls away from the river, tossing her mahogany head once to rid her tangled forelock from her vision.
Droplets of chilly river-water sprinkle themselves into the sky as Wishbone startles, her feminine head jumping away from the river to twist and look at the stranger suddenly. The action causes a flare of feverish pain to run through the muscle of her neck and she winces at the sensation. The voice belongs to a dark stallion — a seemingly healthy stallion. Fatigue lingers behind the amber of her eyes, but Wishbone forces her thoughts away from pity and toward Loic.
“I hate to say it, but winter’s fucked me up this time around.” She’s always had the mouth of a sailor, and the unique honey-whiskey of her voice (rough and low from a childhood spent in clouds of volcano sulfur yet somehow laced with that sweetness of feminity) truly adds to the effect. It’s a wonder she managed to steer clear of obsessive swearing in her days of leading Nerine’s meetings, though it would certainly be a story to tell of the Khaleesi rallying her Leviathans with profanities of encouragement.
The strength of the dark man becomes obvious when he asks for information. Wishbone looks him over perhaps a bit more critically now, analyzing if she’s seen him before along her journey outside Beqanna. She’s only just come back herself (and this might be one reason why the plague has hit her with such a tiger-roar of ferocity), but Beqanna is her home nonetheless. “You’re in the River, a common territory of Beqanna.” A violent cough shakes her entire body at the end of this sentence, so forceful Wishbone wonders if her children will slide from her loins prematurely.
Thankfully, the coughing fit wavers and leaves her sore and drained of breath. “This entire land is called Beqanna.” It’s a diverse country, full of beach-fronts and mountains and snowstorms and dark forests. Wishbone leans down to take another sip of water, unconcerned that the stranger might injure her. He seems to be safe enough, or at least willing to risk his life when she is so obviously ill. “I’m Wishbone,” she says as she pulls away from the river, tossing her mahogany head once to rid her tangled forelock from her vision.
@[Loic]