Mondrian
Mondrian was asleep near the base of a leafless tree when the rain came on and the glassy ice that has formed over his curled body holds him in place as firmly as if he is a statue. He can barely breathe, and that is what wakes him at first, when his lungs scream and his brain cries out for consciousness. His first instinct - with his every nerve firing at once - is to leap to his fet, but his legs barely respond and he cannot pull his head and neck from their place on the damp ground. Startlingly blue eyes open and try desperately to focus but the icy shell is like wavy glass and the world swims until he's dizzy.
He stops trying to look, screws his eyes shut again with the smallest sigh.
It isn't the first time that this has happened or he might panic more at the thought of being frozen in place until a thaw comes. It's just that the cure comes at a strange price and he hesitates. Even as the ice grows thicker and his breath more shallow, as the holes around his nostrils slowly close so the air struggles through with a small, hollow whistle, he hesitates. Until something bright lights up the backs of his eyelids, something that shines like fire and the boy re-opens his eyes, forgetting that he cannot see through the streaks of ice.
It is fire, warm and bright and blazing. This cure is not much better, the flames make him nervous. The bearer of the flame will almost certainly see the small glowing statue of a sleeping colt where none should be. They will almost certainly investigate and the idea of fire brushing over his skin makes him shudder. It strengthens his resolve, though.
He whispers softly to himself, a distraction from the creeping feeling of flesh turning to memory, and he does not know if it happens slowly because he is no good at the shift, or if it is because Death has no reason to hurry. It will not be denied or hastened. In Its own time, Death takes his body and at last, the apparition of a cracked black colt finally stands clumsily as if he has not moved in hours. The glass shell of his tomb still sleeps unbroken and his hooves extricate themselves carefully though there is no reason for him to move so gingerly. He is no longer capable of damaging the fragile structure.
He turns then to the girl burning brightly beneath his tree with wary blue eyes the glow faintly in the dark. He cannot imagine how she stands the fire on her head.
"Does... Does that hurt?"
His voice is hollow, mournful, drifting through the haze of Death half a breath behind the flutter of his lips.
He stops trying to look, screws his eyes shut again with the smallest sigh.
It isn't the first time that this has happened or he might panic more at the thought of being frozen in place until a thaw comes. It's just that the cure comes at a strange price and he hesitates. Even as the ice grows thicker and his breath more shallow, as the holes around his nostrils slowly close so the air struggles through with a small, hollow whistle, he hesitates. Until something bright lights up the backs of his eyelids, something that shines like fire and the boy re-opens his eyes, forgetting that he cannot see through the streaks of ice.
It is fire, warm and bright and blazing. This cure is not much better, the flames make him nervous. The bearer of the flame will almost certainly see the small glowing statue of a sleeping colt where none should be. They will almost certainly investigate and the idea of fire brushing over his skin makes him shudder. It strengthens his resolve, though.
He whispers softly to himself, a distraction from the creeping feeling of flesh turning to memory, and he does not know if it happens slowly because he is no good at the shift, or if it is because Death has no reason to hurry. It will not be denied or hastened. In Its own time, Death takes his body and at last, the apparition of a cracked black colt finally stands clumsily as if he has not moved in hours. The glass shell of his tomb still sleeps unbroken and his hooves extricate themselves carefully though there is no reason for him to move so gingerly. He is no longer capable of damaging the fragile structure.
He turns then to the girl burning brightly beneath his tree with wary blue eyes the glow faintly in the dark. He cannot imagine how she stands the fire on her head.
"Does... Does that hurt?"
His voice is hollow, mournful, drifting through the haze of Death half a breath behind the flutter of his lips.
@[Derelict] @[Vanilla Custard]