08-30-2020, 08:42 PM
snag the sky, make it bleed starlight
I used to be from here.
Everyone Shipka meets seems to be from somewhere else, and even, somehow, this other girl who so plainly states she is from right here (where you are from, too, Shipka,) even she has a taste of elsewhere, as if here and here are not the same place.
Why did you go? The question lingers on her tongue unasked. It's the wrong question, and the yearling tips her head to one side, curiously.
"What made you come back?" Shipka, too, searches for something else, some unattainable magic that hides behind the stars, and no matter how much starlight she pulls from the sky, she can never quite find it, never quite see it. It still calls to her though, makes her heart sing out to the stars above.
Grey eyes run smoothly over the Wanderer, as if they might find an answer to the question in the pattern of her coat but, of course, there's nothing for her to read there. She is too young to know the mare's mother, too untravelled to have met her sire. No, the yearling has spent her nearly two-years of life with her thoughts drifting well above the earth, her eyes searching the horizon, but her feet firmly rooted among the sweetgrass meadow of her birth.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
The starry girl is eager to know that others have found what they sought, that there can, occasionally, be an end to eternal pursuits. She fears that her own is not one of these, but instead like Islas, dreaming emptily of resting in the velvet sky again and burning softly over the world. Shipka carries the stars, they rest across her shoulders and back, and the wisps of her mane and tail glitter and gleam with the pulse of them, but she will never walk among them. Perhaps, though, there are other places she might go, new stars to dream under, this stranger makes her think that she could.
"My name is Shipka. Will you be staying?"
Everyone Shipka meets seems to be from somewhere else, and even, somehow, this other girl who so plainly states she is from right here (where you are from, too, Shipka,) even she has a taste of elsewhere, as if here and here are not the same place.
Why did you go? The question lingers on her tongue unasked. It's the wrong question, and the yearling tips her head to one side, curiously.
"What made you come back?" Shipka, too, searches for something else, some unattainable magic that hides behind the stars, and no matter how much starlight she pulls from the sky, she can never quite find it, never quite see it. It still calls to her though, makes her heart sing out to the stars above.
Grey eyes run smoothly over the Wanderer, as if they might find an answer to the question in the pattern of her coat but, of course, there's nothing for her to read there. She is too young to know the mare's mother, too untravelled to have met her sire. No, the yearling has spent her nearly two-years of life with her thoughts drifting well above the earth, her eyes searching the horizon, but her feet firmly rooted among the sweetgrass meadow of her birth.
"Did you find what you were looking for?"
The starry girl is eager to know that others have found what they sought, that there can, occasionally, be an end to eternal pursuits. She fears that her own is not one of these, but instead like Islas, dreaming emptily of resting in the velvet sky again and burning softly over the world. Shipka carries the stars, they rest across her shoulders and back, and the wisps of her mane and tail glitter and gleam with the pulse of them, but she will never walk among them. Perhaps, though, there are other places she might go, new stars to dream under, this stranger makes her think that she could.
"My name is Shipka. Will you be staying?"
@[Aloy] LYR
