Shed Your Shrouds | Iris

[Sympathetic Gore]

You've got to hurt before you heal

Summer had never been his favourite of seasons, it was hot and the warmth made him reek of the company he kept. He'd been spending his days wherever the dead lay their aching bones, their flesh feeding the earth. It did not matter to him which body it was - be it another equine, a deer, even the smallest of rodents. Where there was death, there was a friend for him. He spoke sweetly to their corpses, reassuring them that though their mortal coil had roughened their physical form, their souls were now free to wander in peace, delivered from the tasks of the living. He was unsure if the souls that had belonged to the bodies were truly at rest, but he liked to believe that somehow his words would reach them, and hoped they brought comfort the cold bones that ran through the afterlife. 

Succouring the dead did have its downsides though, and as the Summer's rays warmed his coat, the smell of decay surrounded him like a sickly sweet perfume. For this reason, he had come to the river, eager to wash himself of the stench of his friends who did not breathe, for the sake of those who did. Finding a spot where the river did not run too quickly, he gently stepped forward, allowing the cool water to soothe him, a look of glee plastered on his features as he moved deeper into the gentle flow. Curled ends of black and white hair began to touch the water now too, encouraging him to dip his head and neck into the cold. Rising back up with a splash, he shook himself of the excess moisture, grinning as he did so. The slim stallion stood there peacefully, enjoying the feeling of the soft currents moving past his legs, the sound of the running water music to his green ears.

Sympathetic Gore

@[Iris]

[Iris]

stars, hide your fire;
let not light see my black and deep desires

She catches the smell of the dead first. It takes her a little while to find the source, and by the time she does, the stallion is wading into the river to wash away the smell. Curious. Did he kill someone and need to clean it? Had he been mourning a lost loved one? The questions run through her head, and she projects one to the souls that swirl around her. They always find her, whether there are bones about or not. Souls don’t tend to stay with their bodies (though there are a few that cling to life). He tries to talk to us, says a voice, old and gray. Another, sweet and middle-aged, perhaps He encourages souls by their bones.

Iris likes him immediately.

She makes her way to the edge of the river, letting her feet come to rest on the bank, not afraid of the water but not wanting to disturb him either. ”Hello,” she calls, unafraid despite her small age and small size. After all, she could take down most threats with little effort, could make herself poisonous to the touch. She doesn’t need to be large to be dangerous. ”The dead tell me you talk to them.” It is blunt, but she doesn’t care. ”Why?” She wants to know if he is like her.

iris

@[Sympathetic Gore]