10-27-2018, 11:43 PM
In North's eyes are storms spun of copper. Those eyes do not follow her companion's gaze to the two oaks. Those eyes rest on a face that could have been hers, once-- but different. For North, sorrow would come later.
"Most I am afraid to speak out loud," the younger says. There might be wisdom in this, but there is more likely folly. Fear is what give words the power to hurt-- without it they are just dead leaves buffeted by the wind.
(or else they are spoken with hope, and they take flight like doves-- but this isn't a happy story
, and we don't know a thing about flying)
Dead leaves rustle in the afternoon breeze. The air has a chill to it that excites her. "Don't be afraid." When she smiles it is almost a wistful thing, as though the memory of fear reminds her of something funny and long forgotten. Maybe she is remembering the girl she once was.
She extends her muzzle, offering her breath in greeting. "North."
The other mare smells like memories. Her silver hair reminds North of something-- "My mother always said we silvers are favored by the moon." North, she goes back and forth on believing. Sometimes it feels like there's magic in her blood, like mother must be right. Most of the time she feels the opposite of favored. " Do you think it could be true?"
N O R T H
<3