There’s a craggy, shale-slick cliff that exists atop Pangea’s highest point above the ocean. During cold spring showers, pebble after pebble tumbles down the hundreds foot drop into the churning water. The usually dull gray stone is nearly black with wet, its shiny slick glimmering with the same kind of danger a knife does. Here above the depthless sea and below the unforgiving sky, Margot can drown out the madness within. Here the wind cuts at her porcelain, each gust more threatening than the last. The fragile woman peers over the edge, releases a piercing Harpy’s cry—then leaves unceremoniously.
The plain’s of Pangea host only a rare manner of life (that rare life lately being an occasional cricket or a hissing rattlesnake). Those looking for some infantile punishment, the wayward, the bewitched and bemused, the cretins and soulless titans—Margot has seen this land bear every type of odd one can dream of. But even the demigods of dark gods find silence within their dynasties and Margot—Margot knew only to prepare for if that day may come.
And come it did, the silence. Stillness blanketed the people’s once riotous land and what followed . . . Margot would not call it peace but it was something akin to it—something that has burrowed beneath her skin and stung her everyday since. You see, to understand the porcelain, clay-spattered woman trekking back to the shadowed canyons she prefers; one must understand the nature of a land like Pangea. How a land can ask so much of an individual that it entirely consumes them. How a land can spit it’s consumption back into the world entirely changed.
Margot has many strange stories to tell, ones of love lost and gained, of betrayal, of lust and murder; but now she only wishes to tell one, to control every narrative her tendrils of sick magic might discover. There’s a clarity to the cold, cruel rain that plinks off of her body. A rare smile curls her lips, a gleam lights the pale colors of her eyes, and a prick perks up her typically turned ears.
The sun dares to peek out between thick, gray clouds as Margot gently lays in a creek bed. She rolls onto her back, allowing the clear water to turn brown as it tugs at all of her mane’s dirty tangles. When she rolls back over, a grand, winning smile is plastered across her face.
