01-12-2019, 10:32 AM
living for the past
because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
In between the unrestful nights spent coughing, the uncomfortable swell of her growing womb, and the constant ache of her body, Wishbone longs for the familiarity of her parents. It’s a childish thought, but it festers among the roots of her two current dilemmas — becoming a mother and having a body riddled with infection. There are often days where the mahogany will slide out of her cavern in Nerine into the fresh winter air and wish she could simply ask Warrick or Wound for advice. She’s certain they would know what to do (Warrick would flutter kisses over her face, even if it meant getting sick himself; Wound would travel to every corner of Beqanna in search of a healer).
Yet Wishbone has neither seen nor heard of them since her return to Beqanna. It leaves a deep ache in her chest, one that bothers her just as much as the symptoms of twins growing or the plague. She is certain they would both be overjoyed to hear they are becoming grandparents.
Wishbone attempts to consolidate herself — and perhaps search for a healer just as her mother would have done — by traveling to the common-lands of Beqanna. The journey takes much longer than it normally does, especially for the adventuring woman, and it takes a couple days of labored, waddling, fever-slick walking before she finally reaches the River. Wishbone’s body finally comes to a stop on the snow-covered embankment leading down to the water. Although winter is in full swing (her breath clouds into a dragon-smoke puff on the edge of her sable nose), the very center of the river is still exposed to the air, with the rapids passive and lapping against the corners of the ice.
Thankfully, it is morning and Wishbone knows the area might soon be swarming with other infected Beqannians looking for someone to wash their sickness away. For now, the morning is peaceful and content; the mahogany mare’s exhaustion melts away for a brief moment as she drinks heavily from the river, balancing precariously on the ice.
Yet Wishbone has neither seen nor heard of them since her return to Beqanna. It leaves a deep ache in her chest, one that bothers her just as much as the symptoms of twins growing or the plague. She is certain they would both be overjoyed to hear they are becoming grandparents.
Wishbone attempts to consolidate herself — and perhaps search for a healer just as her mother would have done — by traveling to the common-lands of Beqanna. The journey takes much longer than it normally does, especially for the adventuring woman, and it takes a couple days of labored, waddling, fever-slick walking before she finally reaches the River. Wishbone’s body finally comes to a stop on the snow-covered embankment leading down to the water. Although winter is in full swing (her breath clouds into a dragon-smoke puff on the edge of her sable nose), the very center of the river is still exposed to the air, with the rapids passive and lapping against the corners of the ice.
Thankfully, it is morning and Wishbone knows the area might soon be swarming with other infected Beqannians looking for someone to wash their sickness away. For now, the morning is peaceful and content; the mahogany mare’s exhaustion melts away for a brief moment as she drinks heavily from the river, balancing precariously on the ice.
@[Loic]