01-02-2021, 02:08 PM
take my soul & make it undone
be the one, be the one to take me home and show me the sun. i know, i know you can bring the fire, i can bring the bones. i know, i know you'll make the fire, my bones will make it grow.
Wishbone can remember the weight of Nerine’s crown upon her young head well. It had felt too heavy then; the throne did not suit the ambitions of her reckless mind. She had spent hours beneath Scorch’s wise, harsh judgement, falling asleep on many nights with thoughts of politics and battle strategies and history. No amount of training could have truly prepared her for the responsibilities that come with leading a kingdom. The effort it took to rule Nerine had rubbed her young, impulsive edges the wrong way.
As her amber eyes scan the long grasses and thick undergrowth, she wonders if the crown would fit better now. The severity of dying and then living again has brought her closer to reality, controlling Wishbone’s wilderness so she has settled into someone better suited for politics and queenship. She cannot ever deny that spark of adventure that glows within her, but she can certainly admit her experiences of having children (though she did not have the opportunity to raise them), dying and spending years in the Afterlife, and returning to life in an entirely different body have played a role in subduing her chaotic tendencies.
Yet Wishbone is not a queen now — in fact, she can barely even consider herself a resident of any land. But Tephra is familiar to her and its geography is a perfect map in her mind. Her attention is focused on the structures of the land, but the sound of wings draws her eyes upward. For a moment the figure looks like Warrick, outlined in morning sunlight and colored in a familiar shade of red-brown. Warmth spreads in Wishbone’s chest, even after she recognizes the differences between this stranger and her father.
When Warden lands, the onyx-and-gold mare is certain this is her youngest half-brother. The glittering blue of his horns and the splashes of white upon his body are different, but the mahogany that darkens his sides is characteristic of their family. The way his red-brown glints in the morning sun gives her a soft ache just beside her heart; although she has spent six years in this dark body, she misses the red that wrapped around her original frame. Wishbone had lived with that ache for too long and she had vowed to ignore it when she finally left the sheltered, shadowy corners.
So she pushes the feeling away, replacing it with a wild smile that brings enough life to compensate for Warden’s stoicism. “I am a native,” she says, and her voice is both husky and soft. “I’m Wishbone and you must be Warden.” Wishbone takes a step closer, the length of her long leg gracefully sweeping away the distance. “I was hoping to find you at some point. You seem to have quite the reputation.” Her tune is honest, yet there is humor in the final sentence as she aligns her eyes with his gaze.
As her amber eyes scan the long grasses and thick undergrowth, she wonders if the crown would fit better now. The severity of dying and then living again has brought her closer to reality, controlling Wishbone’s wilderness so she has settled into someone better suited for politics and queenship. She cannot ever deny that spark of adventure that glows within her, but she can certainly admit her experiences of having children (though she did not have the opportunity to raise them), dying and spending years in the Afterlife, and returning to life in an entirely different body have played a role in subduing her chaotic tendencies.
Yet Wishbone is not a queen now — in fact, she can barely even consider herself a resident of any land. But Tephra is familiar to her and its geography is a perfect map in her mind. Her attention is focused on the structures of the land, but the sound of wings draws her eyes upward. For a moment the figure looks like Warrick, outlined in morning sunlight and colored in a familiar shade of red-brown. Warmth spreads in Wishbone’s chest, even after she recognizes the differences between this stranger and her father.
When Warden lands, the onyx-and-gold mare is certain this is her youngest half-brother. The glittering blue of his horns and the splashes of white upon his body are different, but the mahogany that darkens his sides is characteristic of their family. The way his red-brown glints in the morning sun gives her a soft ache just beside her heart; although she has spent six years in this dark body, she misses the red that wrapped around her original frame. Wishbone had lived with that ache for too long and she had vowed to ignore it when she finally left the sheltered, shadowy corners.
So she pushes the feeling away, replacing it with a wild smile that brings enough life to compensate for Warden’s stoicism. “I am a native,” she says, and her voice is both husky and soft. “I’m Wishbone and you must be Warden.” Wishbone takes a step closer, the length of her long leg gracefully sweeping away the distance. “I was hoping to find you at some point. You seem to have quite the reputation.” Her tune is honest, yet there is humor in the final sentence as she aligns her eyes with his gaze.
@[Warden]