01-24-2021, 01:40 AM
Ryatah
— there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you, don't you agree?
The meadow is hushed from the blanket of snow, and it almost makes her wonder why she decided to venture out of Hyaline. She disliked the quiet; hated anything that forced her to acknowledge her thoughts. Ever since the eclipse it seemed as though everything was quiet, though, and she could feel some of her old restlessness and agitation begin to simmer just beneath the surface of her skin. The rest of Beqanna is not used to the dark; not the way she is. She has spent more time in the dark than she ever has in the light, and when the moon decided to take the sun hostage she did not notice.
She decides that the meadow is not going to be a suitable release for her tension today, and she is moving back toward Hyaline when she hears a distant, but distinct cry.
Ryatah, for all her angelic features and relatively kind demeanor, was not the best at comforting others in distress. If not for an inexplicable pull that seemed to draw her towards the sound she would have likely continued on her way, but as it is she cannot ignore the way the sound had pierced beyond her typically selfish nature and managed to capture her attention.
She follows the sound until through the dark she finds the warmth of the body curled in the snow—bright, like the color of flames, against a world of cold. With angel-wings folded delicately at her sides, she does not take the time to think of how oddly light and shining she would be in this shadow-world, and instead she approaches directly, stopping only once she is close enough to lower a haloed head and touch her porcelain-white lips to the girl's neck. “Are you hurt?” she asks her, instead of asking if she was alright— clearly she wasn't. There is a spot on the mare’s neck that shows bright red, and there is something about the wound—the way she can nearly taste the acid of it—that reminds her of the types of injuries she had seen Ripley and her offspring inflict. The odds of prey escaping the jaws of her daughter seemed unlikely, but she cannot help but to think that she was drawn to this mare because of a connection through her.
She decides that the meadow is not going to be a suitable release for her tension today, and she is moving back toward Hyaline when she hears a distant, but distinct cry.
Ryatah, for all her angelic features and relatively kind demeanor, was not the best at comforting others in distress. If not for an inexplicable pull that seemed to draw her towards the sound she would have likely continued on her way, but as it is she cannot ignore the way the sound had pierced beyond her typically selfish nature and managed to capture her attention.
She follows the sound until through the dark she finds the warmth of the body curled in the snow—bright, like the color of flames, against a world of cold. With angel-wings folded delicately at her sides, she does not take the time to think of how oddly light and shining she would be in this shadow-world, and instead she approaches directly, stopping only once she is close enough to lower a haloed head and touch her porcelain-white lips to the girl's neck. “Are you hurt?” she asks her, instead of asking if she was alright— clearly she wasn't. There is a spot on the mare’s neck that shows bright red, and there is something about the wound—the way she can nearly taste the acid of it—that reminds her of the types of injuries she had seen Ripley and her offspring inflict. The odds of prey escaping the jaws of her daughter seemed unlikely, but she cannot help but to think that she was drawn to this mare because of a connection through her.
there's something wretched about this, something so precious about this, oh what a sin —
@[Nostromo]