08-21-2018, 09:09 PM
The sky bled into the sea, deep purple clouds creating puffy bruises above the steely surf. The sun would be here soon, but it was doubtful they'd see it for several hours, not with the size of storm rolling in. Watercolour smudges began to appear beneath the cloud line, blurring the land where the rain had begun to fall. Every so often lightning would flash, breaking the darkness for scant heartbeats before thunder pealed across the bay. On a reclusive island, in the scant shelter of a stunted teak grove, a singular mare lay watching the meteorological drama unfold.
Sabra was different. Once she had surrounded herself with excitement and dramatic happenings. She had thrived on measures of chaos and left a trail of broken hearts in her wake. Now it was starting to seem that karma was catching up with her. She was not so emaciated as she had been weeks ago, though still thinner than she had been at her peak of health. Her pelt was trying to thicken for winter, pale enough to be called white. Her mane and tail were growing back, still shorter than they'd been in years. These things would fix themselves with time. More indelible were the marks that crosshatched her face, neck and shoulders, thin scars that would grow back with true white hairs. Those lines would marble the blue of her coat when she shed in the spring. At least her wings were feathering out again. The hard stress molt had made her look like something decaying, and itched hellishly to boot. Vanity died hard, and was a contributing factor to her seclusion on this lonely isle. She would not be gone long, her sons still seemed to love and want her, which was something to be thankful for. Still, she found the peace of isolation necessary. It would take wings or fins to find her here, if one would care to look.
Watching the storm build struck a primal chord within her. She felt a kinship with the weather, a chaotic energy that sought release. Salty wind filled her lungs with promises. Just as easily she blew it out, lending her breath to the thunderheads above. Soon that rain would be pelting her skin and face, cleansing it of the pain that echoed still. Maybe she would even try the little feathers sprouting from her shoulders and ride the storm. She had never been a girl for fear, for holding herself back. It was a new skill she was learning, to be gentle with herself. If she could learn that, then just maybe, things would start to go right. For now, the wind called her name, and Sabra longed to answer.
Sabra was different. Once she had surrounded herself with excitement and dramatic happenings. She had thrived on measures of chaos and left a trail of broken hearts in her wake. Now it was starting to seem that karma was catching up with her. She was not so emaciated as she had been weeks ago, though still thinner than she had been at her peak of health. Her pelt was trying to thicken for winter, pale enough to be called white. Her mane and tail were growing back, still shorter than they'd been in years. These things would fix themselves with time. More indelible were the marks that crosshatched her face, neck and shoulders, thin scars that would grow back with true white hairs. Those lines would marble the blue of her coat when she shed in the spring. At least her wings were feathering out again. The hard stress molt had made her look like something decaying, and itched hellishly to boot. Vanity died hard, and was a contributing factor to her seclusion on this lonely isle. She would not be gone long, her sons still seemed to love and want her, which was something to be thankful for. Still, she found the peace of isolation necessary. It would take wings or fins to find her here, if one would care to look.
Watching the storm build struck a primal chord within her. She felt a kinship with the weather, a chaotic energy that sought release. Salty wind filled her lungs with promises. Just as easily she blew it out, lending her breath to the thunderheads above. Soon that rain would be pelting her skin and face, cleansing it of the pain that echoed still. Maybe she would even try the little feathers sprouting from her shoulders and ride the storm. She had never been a girl for fear, for holding herself back. It was a new skill she was learning, to be gentle with herself. If she could learn that, then just maybe, things would start to go right. For now, the wind called her name, and Sabra longed to answer.