Wayra wore the autumn night like a cloak. She let the darkness wrap around her, and it was a velvety blackness that forbade anything but low whispers. The blue girl sighed. She wouldn’t have spoken anyways, and so her slinking cloak of night was not a heavy burden. She had watched them, Kirin’s family, with hooded, curious eyes. The expression made her face look more animated, more real. They were undeniably real, and so in their presence Wayra herself seemed to become more whole.
She had followed them from the Gates, a cold ghost that brought premature winter to the trees. When they had met the mountains she knew that they must have been drawing close. Wayra’s throat constricted slightly, and her icy breath became shallow. Soon, very soon, they would be there. The little blue girl swallowed, and closed her eyes against the pain that lanced through her breast. It was an old pain, a familiar one, but the sting never lessened. Most of her heart was cold, a dead thing that lived on due to magic alone. But, there was a part of her, a small part, that was still soft and silly, was still a girl. That was the part that hurt when her heart beat too fast, when the permeating ice touched warm flesh. Wayra swallowed again, and rearranged her expression into something that wasn’t silly, soft and broken.
Wayra saw the the top of the iron stallion’s head before the rest came into view. She blinked, her fluttering eyes seemingly out of place on her otherwise still expression. This, surely, must be it. Unbidden, Wayra’s lips parted slightly, and she felt something stir in her belly. Her reaction was visceral for a girl born of ice and snow. For a moment she was excited, perhaps even a little afraid, and it blazed in her eyes for a flickering moment as she turned to the mare and stallions who had come to get them. She looked between Kersey, Kult and Raelynx, addressing her question to them all.
“Your home?” It was an easy presumption to make, and her eyes fluttered back to the cove before they could answer. She looked at the waves, at the obsidian glass, but mostly she looked for him, that purple boy who had started all of this. Slowly, a little slyly, Wayra smiled. She had forgotten to breathe, and when she did remember it didn’t seem necessary.
COTY
Assailant -- Year 226
QOTY
"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
the glass candles are burning; Gates group/any
|
01-20-2016, 01:41 PM
|
« Next Oldest | Next Newest »
|
Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)