you're the beacon / krone

[wound]

A lthough tensions continue to run high within Beqanna’s own political climate, the newest members of Tephra seem to have calmed down. In the absence of her daughter, Wound has been looking to fill her heart with the members of Tephra instead. She waits until it’s a quieter day on the island, the heavy humidity of their climate lessening just barely under the minuscule change of autumn. Wound finds herself on the beach closest to the volcano’s face, the waves just barely touching her heels against the pebbled shoreline. Her thoughts twist toward her daughter, somewhere within Nerine’s safety. She isn’t too worried about Wishbone’s protection but a mother’s concern does find the crevices of her anxious heart. Before her worried thoughts spiral into panic, Wound turns away from the beach and heads deeper into the interior portions of her home. There’s a visible path she decides to follow, weaving between thick undergrowth and through grassy clearings. It isn’t long before her eyes spot the bay-green newcomer. Although Wound never met Krone while she led Ischia, she finds some prospect in a friendship already. The silver bay can’t imagine the amount of stress the other woman must be under, especially to decide to upheave her entire life and the world her children know. Wound allows a low, peaceful snort to blow out of her white-snipped nose to announce her approach. Although the newcomers have had some time to get settled in their new home, the Head of Peace doesn’t want to startle Krone. A gentle smile finds her mouth as she stops a peaceful distance from the bay mare. “It’s nice to see new faces getting familiar with Tephra’s landscape.”

credit to nat of adoxography.

@[Krone]

[Krone]

She finds herself at Tephras borders almost constantly now. Her depression had consumed the more refined parts of her body - her head hangs low, her usually attractive curves grow thin, her eyes stay dull. She watches the ocean waves lap in and out, remembering the better times of Ischia, the better times of her life in general. All that was left were remnants (the jewel on her forehead, the smell on her skin that was slowly dissipating). She was a firm believer in the fact that things happened for a reason, but she was confused as to what this particular reason might be.

In the last few days though, she has eaten (with Durotan’s help) and she has socialized instead of secluding herself within her thicket. She’s trying to fill the void her departure with Ischia had left, and at this point that was all she could do.

When a snort comes from behind, her emerald tipped satellites flick back. She turns her head just well enough to see, and upon seeing the familiar face of Wound, she smiles. Krone gestures with the slight jerk of her neck for the new Head of Peace to come forward. “It is beautiful, Wound,” She replies, continuing to gaze out to the sea. “But I hope you can forgive me for not being able to call it home just yet. I’m still getting used to it.” She glances over to silver-bay mare and gives her an apologetic look. It would take time, Krone hopes she will understand.

@[wound]

[wound]

B efore Tephra, the word “home” hadn’t meant much to Wound. Perhaps she would have considered it the sights and sounds and smells of her brothers (the bulk of their shoulders crowding her at night, the dissonant rhythms of their breathing, the scents testosterone mingled with decomposing leaves). In terms of physicality, the hidden forests of Beqanna had been her home — she’d spent all of her childhood weaving under thickly-woven treetops and between gnarled undergrowth. There is no denying that the volcanic island is her home now, as sure as she understands the word to be. Home is a subjective phrase, but Wound does truly feel the most comfortable among her friends and family on the shores or under the volcano or among the hot springs or in the thick, lava-woven forests. She can understand Krone’s behavior. It’s perfectly acceptable for the once-queen to be going through a lot of emotions and so Wound’s eyes soften with compassion at the sound of the other’s words. “I don’t blame you,” she admits. A deep breath follows her words, inhaling the tang of brine and seafoam on the shoreline breeze. “I’m sure it’s been a difficult adjustment.” It had been a minor struggle for Wound, transitioning from a life confined to her brothers and the woodland creatures to this large island with its many inhabitants. She can’t imagine having to go from one home — that you’ve worked so hard for — into another you know nothing about. Although she’s never been to Ischia, the Head of Peace knows the kingdom is surrounded by its own ocean. Perhaps that will give Krone some peace. The waves wash against their feet now, dragging the sand out from under their hooves. “Would getting involved in our caste system help you at all?” Perhaps bringing some purpose back into the mare’s life would help her situation. Wound eases the thought in gently, her tone nothing but understanding. “I’m no queen, but if I went from working my ass off all the time to doing nothing at all I would be miserable.”

credit to nat of adoxography.

@[Krone]