01-31-2021, 05:59 PM
Ryatah
— there's something tragic about you, something so magic about you, don't you agree?
Even though she did not mind the dark, it still brought with it its own challenges.
The twins had been born healthy—or so she had thought. The boy, an angel made of ice, and the girl, with her rose-gold dapples pressed against a dove-gray. When she had first been born there had been no indication of poor health; she had shown an ability to shift and match Ryatah’s own angelic form, though everything on Este was the same soft, rose-gold as her dapples. She could not deny that it pleased her they both inherited something so clearly from her—their halos and their wings, and everything else ethereal about them.
She had not spoken of their father to Atrox, but she didn’t feel she needed to. She is sure her downcast eyes and reluctance to meet his stare was enough to tell him all he needed to know.
As the days passed in darkness, though, the girl began to weaken. She became less inclined to follow her brother, preferring instead to remain near her mother, often pressed into her side or nestled at her feet. She was quiet, too—rarely speaking. It was enough to raise worry in Ryatah; enough to make her try to heal her, though she didn’t know what she was looking for.
No matter what she did, though, it did nothing to help. Whatever was ailing Este it was not something that she could heal. The thought of finding Carnage crosses her mind, but she just as quickly silences it. She trusted him, to an extent, but she was convinced he would not see this situation the way that she did; she was afraid he would see Este as weak and not worth saving.
Today it is just the two of them, with Sela having wandered away to explore. Este had drifted into an uneasy sleep, and Ryatah found herself mindlessly running her nose down the ridge of her spin. She seemed thin, and she once again fought the knot of anxiety tightening inside of her chest.
In the near distance, she sees a light—or at least something starkly white. Almost immediately a smile forms on her lips, recognizing the figure immediately. “Beyza,” she calls her name, beckoning her closer. The sight of her eased some of the weight on her chest, knowing that at least one of her other children was safe.
The twins had been born healthy—or so she had thought. The boy, an angel made of ice, and the girl, with her rose-gold dapples pressed against a dove-gray. When she had first been born there had been no indication of poor health; she had shown an ability to shift and match Ryatah’s own angelic form, though everything on Este was the same soft, rose-gold as her dapples. She could not deny that it pleased her they both inherited something so clearly from her—their halos and their wings, and everything else ethereal about them.
She had not spoken of their father to Atrox, but she didn’t feel she needed to. She is sure her downcast eyes and reluctance to meet his stare was enough to tell him all he needed to know.
As the days passed in darkness, though, the girl began to weaken. She became less inclined to follow her brother, preferring instead to remain near her mother, often pressed into her side or nestled at her feet. She was quiet, too—rarely speaking. It was enough to raise worry in Ryatah; enough to make her try to heal her, though she didn’t know what she was looking for.
No matter what she did, though, it did nothing to help. Whatever was ailing Este it was not something that she could heal. The thought of finding Carnage crosses her mind, but she just as quickly silences it. She trusted him, to an extent, but she was convinced he would not see this situation the way that she did; she was afraid he would see Este as weak and not worth saving.
Today it is just the two of them, with Sela having wandered away to explore. Este had drifted into an uneasy sleep, and Ryatah found herself mindlessly running her nose down the ridge of her spin. She seemed thin, and she once again fought the knot of anxiety tightening inside of her chest.
In the near distance, she sees a light—or at least something starkly white. Almost immediately a smile forms on her lips, recognizing the figure immediately. “Beyza,” she calls her name, beckoning her closer. The sight of her eased some of the weight on her chest, knowing that at least one of her other children was safe.
there's something wretched about this, something so precious about this, oh what a sin —
@[Beyza]