09-28-2025, 05:54 PM
sirin;
There was something dark that had always festered within her.
It had sprouted like a seed, small at first, with shallow roots that could be easily pulled. She could have done so, if she'd had the inclination to. She could have let goodness grow in its place. She could have unfurled into adulthood like a flower turning into the sun. She had the face for it, after all, the look. Her coat was the same shade as swaying violets in a springtime breeze. Her hair was like the clouds, fair and spun and draped long over her shoulder. She had a delicate, dished face dotted by soft doe-eyes. Angelic wings lay neatly upon her sides, unused, mostly - exotic decoration meant to lure instead.
But Sirin couldn't be bothered.
The years twisted on and on like a corkscrew just as that poisoned vine twisted around her very bones and shot too deep into the marrow.
When the compulsion to move starts, it is met with a huff and roll of her eyes, but she does not try to resist further. Like most aspects of her life, she is indifferent. There has always been magic in Beqanna (well, almost always). Sirin has heard the tales, listened to the words of wonder and adventure pass through the lips of strangers in the shared lands she haunts. Though lately, there haven't even been whispers. The land has been stagnant for so long that it is hard to believe any force could wake it at this point. Not that it matters much to her. Not that anything ever really has.
This is something different, at least, a change of scenery at worst. The purple-hued mare reaches the foothills of the Mountain on what feels like borrowed feet. She sees other figures around her at various stages of ascension. Up, she thinks, but doesn't know why. Upupupup. And so she goes, on and on, one hoof after the other until she crests the top. A ragged breath is the only movement she makes that feels like hers', but even that is involuntary. She cannot move otherwise. Perhaps that rotted vine inside of her has become real and rotted her here. Maybe it will rise up and strangle her now. The thought isn't entirely unpleasant, she finds, a faint smirk on her lips.
It had sprouted like a seed, small at first, with shallow roots that could be easily pulled. She could have done so, if she'd had the inclination to. She could have let goodness grow in its place. She could have unfurled into adulthood like a flower turning into the sun. She had the face for it, after all, the look. Her coat was the same shade as swaying violets in a springtime breeze. Her hair was like the clouds, fair and spun and draped long over her shoulder. She had a delicate, dished face dotted by soft doe-eyes. Angelic wings lay neatly upon her sides, unused, mostly - exotic decoration meant to lure instead.
But Sirin couldn't be bothered.
The years twisted on and on like a corkscrew just as that poisoned vine twisted around her very bones and shot too deep into the marrow.
When the compulsion to move starts, it is met with a huff and roll of her eyes, but she does not try to resist further. Like most aspects of her life, she is indifferent. There has always been magic in Beqanna (well, almost always). Sirin has heard the tales, listened to the words of wonder and adventure pass through the lips of strangers in the shared lands she haunts. Though lately, there haven't even been whispers. The land has been stagnant for so long that it is hard to believe any force could wake it at this point. Not that it matters much to her. Not that anything ever really has.
This is something different, at least, a change of scenery at worst. The purple-hued mare reaches the foothills of the Mountain on what feels like borrowed feet. She sees other figures around her at various stages of ascension. Up, she thinks, but doesn't know why. Upupupup. And so she goes, on and on, one hoof after the other until she crests the top. A ragged breath is the only movement she makes that feels like hers', but even that is involuntary. She cannot move otherwise. Perhaps that rotted vine inside of her has become real and rotted her here. Maybe it will rise up and strangle her now. The thought isn't entirely unpleasant, she finds, a faint smirk on her lips.
