Most days, most days stay the sole same
Please stay, for this fear it will not die
Down low, down amongst the thorn rows
Weeds grow, through the lillies and the vines
Please stay, for this fear it will not die
Down low, down amongst the thorn rows
Weeds grow, through the lillies and the vines
The scathing tone of her question does not find its mark against the thick skin of Noori's alabaster bark. The answer seems apparent to her. Yet against all odds, the oddness of the mare who found her in the river reignites something like curiosity within Noori's breast. A sick curiosity, no doubt, one which smelled of festering wounds and gut rot but which resurfaced nonetheless at the beck and call of the lunatic woman.
One glance, Noori decides. Just one.
The sight of the would-be beauty (opalescent and handsome, curved in all the places that awaken sexual creatures of any type or kind) snapping her teeth at the thin air divides her audience. One half of the mage wants to stay, to enjoy the show, to provide the other with something tangible to chew on; the other rolls her eyes and pulls at her to leave, to return to her delicious and comfortable dissociation to which she so clung in the times of Trekk's absence.
You'd be better off without him, you know.
The sentence, it which seems to be tailored to the exact thoughts occupying Noori's mind, sends a chill through her sap-sweet veins. I can't live without Trekk, comes her internal answer, one which mewls and whines to be so without her one true love. One true lover might be the truer statement but she ignores such rationale -- not just now. Always.
"You don't know him like I do," Noori offers in response, turning now to face the stranger in earnest. The heat of her glowing green gaze would be disconcerting if Sabra had any sense left in her addled mind; in this case, Noori doubts the other will even notice. Still, she walks forward, parting the river with the passing of her stocky forelegs. "Trekk loves me. What else would I need?"
She regrets speaking the question the moment it leaves her mouth; she fears that such words would invite an onslaught of insanity from her would-be companion. Yet still she cannot bring herself to leave. Instead, she summons from within the forest a small life force, beckoning to it in that way she has; Mother Spring suffers no disobedience in her children, after all. When the creature bursts through the foliage near the bank of the river, sides quivering with the exertion of its run here, Noori turns and smiles upon it. A benevolent, radiant goddess to whom the creature sacrifices its life with a divine happiness.
A fawn. Female, wide-eyed; the picture of bespeckled innocence and charm. Her little black nose twitches at the scents of the two mares.
"I believe you were looking for a place to sink your teeth, my dear" says Noori in a sing-song voice. "Might I provide you with such an instrument?"
noori