it is nothing more than a memory; baptiste

[marjorie]

It's a bright day when she steps into the meadow. Overhead the skies are bright and blue the only hint of clouds off to the west where a distant thunder rumbled, threatening to bring rain into the late hours of Beqanna. The grasses are a deep emerald green as the dance along with the wind, a rippling effect running across their tips towards the rivers edge. It was a beautiful summers day, one that called the restless souls into the sun's gaze so that they can enjoy the warmth of the rays against their solid backs.

It is exactly what has drawn Marjorie into the open meadow, and as the sun's rays press against her loudly colored back she sighs softly in content, grateful for the chance to enjoy the nice weather before the storms made their way in to push the living back into the darkness of the forests. "This is nice," she whispers under her breath. It has been a long time since she has been able to relax and ignore the persistent need to find her son. For once, just once, she needed a day where she could be somewhat happy despite the pain of his disappearance.

So many hours had been spent searching, yet nothing had led to his discovery. At least not yet. Someday she knew she would find him. She had to. But for now she would rest and remind herself that despite what happens she must remain the happy and kindhearted person she was. She couldn't allow herself to be swallowed by the pain that swelled deep within. Looking up and across the meadow she glances from group to group, watching the others as the spoke amongst one another, the sounds of their eager voices full of laughter and love and even sometimes distrust making a smile tug at the corners of her lips.

They are all so carefree, so involved with their own lives that they are missing the beauty of the day that surrounds them. But that's not necessarily a bad thing. It leaves her to enjoy it in peace, without unnecessary distraction. Slowly she steps forward, further into the sun's light and with gentle ease her striped legs carry her through the dark green grasses towards the river's edge. With a sudden thought she had decided that being near the water would make the day even nicer. Not only that but it was the perfect place to take a quick nap.

I can guide you if you feel blind. I just need you to be willing to journey into my ill mind.

marjorie

@[Baptiste],
sorry about this :| give me a chance to work into it. I need to fully figure her out. <3

[sequoia]

Baptiste haunts the riverside; it is all that she knows, all that she is comfortable and capable of trusting. The river will not lead her astray, but their disused trails and dung heaps do. She wrinkles her pretty little nose at the scents on the air - rain is coming, far off, but it is coming. The distant rumble of thunder confirms as much as the far off scent of petrichor does, since she can never trust her eyes - they show her nothing, only darkness, and to others, a pale bluish milkiness of the truly blind. For a moment, her head points in the direction of the slow building storm before it cranes back towards the river, blind in its pendulum swing until it settles on something that she’ll never quite be able to see, just shadows - always shadows, no shapes, only smooth darkness and memories of her father’s lips on her blue speckled brow.

She thought of him - often, but no amount of thinking made him materialize out of the shadows and pull her close in an embrace. Thinking, or rather the remembering of him only made her sadder and the smiles came less and less to her face, leaving her somber even in the summer, - a thing that she only knew of because of how the heat built, slickening her skin in some places like under her armpits and along her neck if she stood still for far too long beneath the unmerciful sun. She knew the turn of the seasons because of how the temperatures affected her, or that’s how she knew now. Before, she had only to riffle through someone’s brain and pluck the ideas of summer and winter right out of their pretty unperturbed minds and they never knew of her silent invasion.

Baptiste is not sure which she misses most - her father or her telepathy, and only the latter because of it’s usefulness to her in her blind fumbling state. It was the only crutch the world had given her and then it was quite simply gone, and she felt like a piece of her had been stolen so expertly and decisively from her that she’d hardly even felt it going! That mountain and those fairies had deft hands in their taking, but she gives them little thought and even littler blame - what was done, was done and no amount of hoping otherwise could change it all back. Still, she felt naked and a little afraid in that, because if not for the river… well, she had nothing else and hardly trusted herself despite the fact that she was a plucky enough thing.

The little blue roan mare almost thought of leaving the river to explore the meadow, or not quite explore but the hot heat of the summer day was starting to produce an itch in her still-shedding pelt and a remembrance of nearby trees beckoned sweetly if only to soothe said itch. It is as she moves in shambling indecision from one direction to the next, that she takes no note of the approaching mare and blunders into her by sheer accident. “Oh no!” she blurts out, instantly apologetic by the expression alone on her face as her head shunts blindly from one side to the other in that same familiar pendulum motion that she is so accustomed to. It stills for just a moment, “I really didn’t mean to bump into you.” she amends, a little more smoothly as she musters some sense of decorum her father would have naturally instilled in her.

“I just… I just didn’t see you there.”

It is a lame half-stuttered statement but no closer to the truth than before; she couldn’t have seen the other horse even if she tried to. Baptiste should have known though, should have smelled or sensed, but she was too caught up in her nonsensical fears about leaving the river’s side.

Baptiste

tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies.