02-02-2020, 12:30 AM
"It is."
If she were kinder, she might tell him that like recognizes like, that in him, she sees parts of what she was, and what she has become. Blind, a traveller, the stink of stagnation laying across him like a layer of pine pitch. The sea breezes will soon blow that away, but she does not say this, either, because there is a crust of cold salt in her mane, in her eyelashes, tethering her to the northern kingdom. What frees him - what frees Lilliana - traps her. But he speaks again, and instead of responding further, she turns to the stallion that cannot see the scowl deepening on her lips with each word, cannot see the way her ears flatten until their stubs are invisible in the frothy ocean of her mane or how the deep lines etched by her scars pull at her nostrils and lips, baring her teeth at him. She pivots quickly, her course changing to roughly bump her chest into his shoulder as he steps forward.
"You stay out of their way?" There is a hard edge to her voice, like ice grating on stone, she sneers and drives one rock-torn grey hoof into the earth, "Who is it that's blind? Is it you, or is it them? Why do you make allowances for those that can see?"
She has difficulty understanding, not understanding his fear - how many days was it anxiety alone that urged her steps onward? Rather it is how he has chosen to wear it like a cloak, as if it will make him invisible. But it does not. She has difficulty, too, remembering that not everyone is her, that something they have shared - this blindness - has settled differently on their separate personalities. Where blindness drove her to ever-increasing carelessness and bluster, it drove him instead to shrinking away. He is unwilling to be a burden, and unwilling to protect himself. She has bluffed her way into a crown. Her breath rattles in her nostrils like a growl.
"If you demand room, it will be made for you. There is room in Nerine, but only if you're going to carve it out yourself. Go where you want, say what you want, if you find anyone who doesn't like it, tell them to bring their complaint to Neverwhere and I will tell them exactly where they can go. But," she pauses and her scowl turns to a grin that bleeds into her voice, "I expect you to get in my way, or I'll chase you back to Taiga myself."
She has enough ghosts here already.
If she were kinder, she might tell him that like recognizes like, that in him, she sees parts of what she was, and what she has become. Blind, a traveller, the stink of stagnation laying across him like a layer of pine pitch. The sea breezes will soon blow that away, but she does not say this, either, because there is a crust of cold salt in her mane, in her eyelashes, tethering her to the northern kingdom. What frees him - what frees Lilliana - traps her. But he speaks again, and instead of responding further, she turns to the stallion that cannot see the scowl deepening on her lips with each word, cannot see the way her ears flatten until their stubs are invisible in the frothy ocean of her mane or how the deep lines etched by her scars pull at her nostrils and lips, baring her teeth at him. She pivots quickly, her course changing to roughly bump her chest into his shoulder as he steps forward.
"You stay out of their way?" There is a hard edge to her voice, like ice grating on stone, she sneers and drives one rock-torn grey hoof into the earth, "Who is it that's blind? Is it you, or is it them? Why do you make allowances for those that can see?"
She has difficulty understanding, not understanding his fear - how many days was it anxiety alone that urged her steps onward? Rather it is how he has chosen to wear it like a cloak, as if it will make him invisible. But it does not. She has difficulty, too, remembering that not everyone is her, that something they have shared - this blindness - has settled differently on their separate personalities. Where blindness drove her to ever-increasing carelessness and bluster, it drove him instead to shrinking away. He is unwilling to be a burden, and unwilling to protect himself. She has bluffed her way into a crown. Her breath rattles in her nostrils like a growl.
"If you demand room, it will be made for you. There is room in Nerine, but only if you're going to carve it out yourself. Go where you want, say what you want, if you find anyone who doesn't like it, tell them to bring their complaint to Neverwhere and I will tell them exactly where they can go. But," she pauses and her scowl turns to a grin that bleeds into her voice, "I expect you to get in my way, or I'll chase you back to Taiga myself."
She has enough ghosts here already.
Neverwhere
...
@[Tyr] oh sweet baby Tyr. I'm sorry. I hope you wanted to be adopted by Mare-Face McGee. lmao
