02-09-2024, 03:53 PM
call out on mountains until my voice goes faint
She feels him close. He is like ink or pine tar. She knows it will take quite a while to get him off her skin, if she ever does. The thought sits there at the front of her mind.
Beqanna was not like she remembered. It had changed and altered and eaten itself up. Whatever refuse it spat out was not what she had been born into一
“She is not herself,” Citadelle says, perhaps too quiet to hear.
The little strawberry mare shifts her weight gently, moves her head enough to catch with one emerald eye as he comes closer. She smiles when he calls her polite. It’s charming, she thinks, but naive of him to assume. Citadelle laughs and it sounds like ice cracking beneath the weight of spring. If she learned anything from her cynic of a father it was to distrust everyone.
Life had not been easy for Citadelle but her father had made it tolerable. Some might say Everclear spoiled her. Rotten fruit. She was moldy on the inside. “Citadelle,” it comes out with a snort and she rakes her broken tipped horn against one greenish knee.
“The stallion Everclear was my father,” she doesn’t know why she’s telling him, “but where he is now I do not know. He is a memory to me now, much like most everything.”
Beqanna was not like she remembered. It had changed and altered and eaten itself up. Whatever refuse it spat out was not what she had been born into一
“She is not herself,” Citadelle says, perhaps too quiet to hear.
The little strawberry mare shifts her weight gently, moves her head enough to catch with one emerald eye as he comes closer. She smiles when he calls her polite. It’s charming, she thinks, but naive of him to assume. Citadelle laughs and it sounds like ice cracking beneath the weight of spring. If she learned anything from her cynic of a father it was to distrust everyone.
Life had not been easy for Citadelle but her father had made it tolerable. Some might say Everclear spoiled her. Rotten fruit. She was moldy on the inside. “Citadelle,” it comes out with a snort and she rakes her broken tipped horn against one greenish knee.
“The stallion Everclear was my father,” she doesn’t know why she’s telling him, “but where he is now I do not know. He is a memory to me now, much like most everything.”
citadelle
