she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death

As memories cloud the mind of the ghost-mare, they also cloud the mind of Wishbone.

The tall grass brushes against her young sides, emerald blades kissing the sweetness of her shoulders. Her mother is trailing behind, explaining why she needs to be on her best behavior (“We’re here to meet someone new and maybe see if they want to live in Tephra with us”) as they wander into the midst of the Field. Excitement dances in the low of her belly, tangling with the knots of her child-mane and tugging at the corners of her dark lips.

Although her mother had begun to lose hope, the girl found Siona quickly and immediately bombarded the fox-girl with questions. “... How did you get your tail? And what about your paws?” One could say the same about the mahogany girl’s bruised knees and her drive for adventure (though some would call it mischief).

She has gone on many diplomatic trips with her mother — to Loess (where the child-queen once ruled) and to Hyaline (before her sister-in-law kissed the sweet face of Solace) and to the Field (as a child with Wound and then as a woman for her own kingdom) — and while they might’ve been to settle the wild traveling bug that never left the reckless girl, they had also been to raise her up in the atmosphere of Beqanna’s politics.

Wishbone is grateful for those experiences now, as she wades among spring grasses and nervous youngsters who had wandered too far from their equally-as-nervous mothers. With an easy (one could almost call it mothering, but such a look on her dark lips has been rarely — if ever — seen) smile, the mahogany woman nudges the anxious, newborn-legged filly in the direction of her searching mother. “She’s just over there.” Although her voice is husky and rough, there’s a warm gentleness in it.

When she raises her head from the height of the young girl, Wishbone’s amber gaze catches on a pale mare shrouded in the shade just outside the activity of the Field. Her own mother had spent her fair share in the shadowy corners of Beqanna, living in the protection of her hawk-eyed brothers. This thought brings another smile to her dark lips, tinted with shades of nostalgia. Wishbone reminds herself to visit Wound in Tephra sometime, when the responsibilities of being Khaleesi are not drowning her.

The mahogany mare approaches at a smooth walk, toned muscle shifting easily along her lithe frame. The patchwork of scars across her knees have faded since her childhood (back when summiting Tephra’s volcano had been her life’s goal and jumping the lava-streams had occasionally ended in painful, blistering burns) but deep gray reminders still etch themselves into the darkness of her legs.

“You’re not from here.” The unique scents of Other Places dance on the pale mare’s skin like a flag waving high in the air with the words “I’m new” printed across it. Wishbone’s eyes are intense as she scans the other’s gaunt face. There’s potential in her pale face and along the poke of her ribcage through her skin — potential to become a Leviathan, potential to become something great, potential to be brave and strong and fierce. “Do you want to be here?”

wishbone

she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death

Wishbone resists the urge to laugh at the surprised expression that flutters across the pale mare’s face at her question. She manages to control it to a shockingly-beautiful smirk of amusement, one that pulls attention to the flare of life in her amber eyes and the subtley reckless curve of her dark mouth. Although she’s never truly been one to attempt to control her own desires (as moonlight-lustful or thundercloud-wild as they might be), she knows enough to rein herself in when it’s needed.

Perhaps a laugh would have scared off this ghost-mare.
Perhaps a laugh would have coaxed her nearer.

Regardless of how Sakara might feel about the shadowy haze of amusement flickering across Wishbone’s face, she is moving forward with tender legs. The mahogany mare doesn’t wonder if the marrow of her bones might splinter and fall apart for the simple reason that she must have walked here somehow. It’s likely she could have wings hidden in the air surrounding them, translucent and only pulled from their glass jar when the time is necessary (and this is a gift that some of Beqanna have, as silly as it might sound), but Wishbone’s expression remains unworried by the fragility of the pale mare nevertheless.

“Wishbone is who’s asking, lovely.” Her voice is honey-whiskey — a chaotic mixture of huskiness from her days spent among Tephra’s volcano-smog and a sweet femininity that somehow smooths over the roughness that precedes it — but there’s a hint of something smokier (something that pulls together memories of blood-tinged waves and the moon’s glow illuminating the sheen of sweat on a kelpie tobiano) in the way she gives both her name and says the word “lovely.” Despite these subtle hints, Wishbone’s eyes easily mirror the ghost-mare’s, finding the lonesome faces of strangers amidst the Field.

The swell and dips of the clearing can certainly seem depressing, if someone were to look at it that way. Haunted eyes gaze out from the shadows, perhaps fearing the approach of a rough-and-tough stallion or perhaps wondering why they had come in the first place. Children tousle among themselves under the careful watch of nervous mothers, yet offspring and parent alike have no true, protected place to call home.

Wishbone sees them all as opportunities — dozens of opportunities.

Her eyes meet the shadowed gaze of a tall colt, hazy in appearance, before her lithe head moves back around to catch Sakara’s introduction. “Sakara.” The word is a whisper in her mouth and it sounds like a sweet little secret between the pair of them. “Do you know anything of Beqanna, Sakara?” Her sunset eyes are unwaveringly on the skinny face of the pale mare again, yet a hint of a smile dances on her dark lips.

wishbone