11-25-2020, 11:04 PM
take my soul & make it undone
be the one, be the one to take me home and show me the sun. i know, i know you can bring the fire, i can bring the bones. i know, i know you'll make the fire, my bones will make it grow.
She dreams of Tephra often. The unforgiving, familiar face of black rock will rise out of the gloom of her sleep on most nights. The volcano is a frequent backdrop for the fantasies her mind creates while her body rests. For all the years she had spent in Nerine, for all the months she had spent in the cobwebbed corners of Beqanna, for all the weeks she had spent in Ischia… Tephra is the place her subconscious calls home. Her best memories are of the land of greenery and lava. Tephra is the place she learned how her muscles worked, vowing to scale the volcano’s face with all the bravery of an independent child. Tephra is the place she nuzzled against her father’s warm side, encapsulated in the softest feathers smelling of wind and salt. Tephra is the place she raced Wolfbane, leaping across spitting streams of lava and daring him to tackle her if he could only reach her.
Wishbone’s mind is a patchwork of memories, both hazy and crystalline, as she rounds a shoulder-high boulder and steps into her homeland. She has taken the long way to Tephra, walking along the western coastline instead of cutting through the heart of the country. No matter where Wishbone has lived — Tephra, Nerine, Ischia — the ocean had always tugged at her heels, a constant friend despite the gnawing absence of familiar faces (including her own). She spent much of the journey with her hooves in the saltwater, letting the rhythmic pattern of the tides pull the weariness from her ankles and settle the sand to wash the evidence of her path.
When she finally makes it into Tephra, the dark mare pauses. Wound and Warrick had taught her the importance of manners as a child, yet something about dying and having the chance to live again dims the respect she has for such things as borders and polite greetings. Her amber eyes shift to the ground, staring at the imaginary line between Sylva and Tephra. There is no sudden clash of terrain, no dividing barrier where the autumnal leaves suddenly drop from their journey along the breeze’s path. The ground is relatively normal, a patchwork of wave-battered stones and tall tropical dune-grass.
Her dark legs step across the border, without much of a thought about politics. Wishbone makes it only about a hundred feet before she finds herself back in the water, knee-deep in the characteristic turbulent waves of a springtime ocean. Unchanged amber eyes find the ashen face of the volcano, watching as its colors change with the beginnings of a sunset.
Wishbone’s mind is a patchwork of memories, both hazy and crystalline, as she rounds a shoulder-high boulder and steps into her homeland. She has taken the long way to Tephra, walking along the western coastline instead of cutting through the heart of the country. No matter where Wishbone has lived — Tephra, Nerine, Ischia — the ocean had always tugged at her heels, a constant friend despite the gnawing absence of familiar faces (including her own). She spent much of the journey with her hooves in the saltwater, letting the rhythmic pattern of the tides pull the weariness from her ankles and settle the sand to wash the evidence of her path.
When she finally makes it into Tephra, the dark mare pauses. Wound and Warrick had taught her the importance of manners as a child, yet something about dying and having the chance to live again dims the respect she has for such things as borders and polite greetings. Her amber eyes shift to the ground, staring at the imaginary line between Sylva and Tephra. There is no sudden clash of terrain, no dividing barrier where the autumnal leaves suddenly drop from their journey along the breeze’s path. The ground is relatively normal, a patchwork of wave-battered stones and tall tropical dune-grass.
Her dark legs step across the border, without much of a thought about politics. Wishbone makes it only about a hundred feet before she finds herself back in the water, knee-deep in the characteristic turbulent waves of a springtime ocean. Unchanged amber eyes find the ashen face of the volcano, watching as its colors change with the beginnings of a sunset.
@[Svedka]