02-22-2021, 03:24 PM
it's a mystery to me
we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.
Some days Wishbone paces Tephra’s borders. Some days she wanders in the jungle, stepping across lava flows and splashing through creeks. Some days she simply stands at the edge of the beach, listening to the ocean’s dysrhythmic song. She has accepted that there is no such thing as day or night anymore, merely the passage of time evidenced by the slow decay of their jungle. Her sleeping patterns have only exhaustion as their reasoning, and even this is unreliable. Since the moon and sun first collided, Wishbone has found sleep to be a fabled thing. Her dreams are flashes of memory, of Svedka’s blue-eyed face, of her mother’s laughter.
The urgency in Warden’s voice often wakes her up. Her brother’s voice jolts her awake now, and it sounds so real that Wishbone sucks in a deep breath of the air. Yet all she smells is the thick sweetness of dying plantlife, clinging so heavily in the air that she can taste it. It’s enough to send Wishbone out of the jungle. The sounds of the beach are beginning to reach her ears when she catches the scents of fresh blood and warm fur.
So far, she has only seen the wafting forms of shadows (and there are even darker shadows than what surrounds them, otherworldly beings that flicker with teeth and eyes she can’t begin to describe); she hasn’t heard about anyone getting injured by the beings. The shape of Svedka falling into the open mouth of the earth flashes across her mind’s eye, and she shudders instinctively. Apprehension mingles with frustration at the thought of her brother lost somewhere, perhaps stuck in the darkness he had spoken of before. Wishbone tightens her jaw against the spiral of thoughts she knows will follow if she keeps thinking about Svedka.
Instead, she turns toward the signs of struggle. The glowing birds’ swooping forms provide enough light for Wishbone to make out the blood streaks on the ground. She follows them quickly, her pulse quickening in her throat, and when she finds the remains of a carcass torn apart, she stops. Thankfully the prey seems to have been a deer of some kind, and the predators have already moved on. Wishbone’s amber eyes scan the dark undergrowth as she calls out, “Hello?”
The urgency in Warden’s voice often wakes her up. Her brother’s voice jolts her awake now, and it sounds so real that Wishbone sucks in a deep breath of the air. Yet all she smells is the thick sweetness of dying plantlife, clinging so heavily in the air that she can taste it. It’s enough to send Wishbone out of the jungle. The sounds of the beach are beginning to reach her ears when she catches the scents of fresh blood and warm fur.
So far, she has only seen the wafting forms of shadows (and there are even darker shadows than what surrounds them, otherworldly beings that flicker with teeth and eyes she can’t begin to describe); she hasn’t heard about anyone getting injured by the beings. The shape of Svedka falling into the open mouth of the earth flashes across her mind’s eye, and she shudders instinctively. Apprehension mingles with frustration at the thought of her brother lost somewhere, perhaps stuck in the darkness he had spoken of before. Wishbone tightens her jaw against the spiral of thoughts she knows will follow if she keeps thinking about Svedka.
Instead, she turns toward the signs of struggle. The glowing birds’ swooping forms provide enough light for Wishbone to make out the blood streaks on the ground. She follows them quickly, her pulse quickening in her throat, and when she finds the remains of a carcass torn apart, she stops. Thankfully the prey seems to have been a deer of some kind, and the predators have already moved on. Wishbone’s amber eyes scan the dark undergrowth as she calls out, “Hello?”
@[Tamlin]