Ygritte
BETTER BEWARE, I GO BUMP IN THE NIGHT
DEVIL-MAY-CARE WITH A LUST FOR LIFE
DEVIL-MAY-CARE WITH A LUST FOR LIFE
Spring cleanses away the death of winter's breath; the gentle urgency of green grass pushing through frost; she walks toward the sound of tired river water. The soft hue of salmon pink seems harsh against the dull, murky greys and browns, but Ygritte is somber and purposeful in her walk. Her throat is tight and itches with the desire for a drink, the need making her throat hitched and jagged. She doesn't wonder why she has returned; she simply exists.
Ygritte presses her hoof against the still brittle frozen river edge to splinter, admiring the spider's web only momentarily before breaking it; she pauses, then plunges her painted lips into the icy water, a frozen kiss as she drinks. Beqanna is as it always was, a home of wayward souls, grappling for a foothold and for honor while others look for peace or even revenge. None of it pertains really to the cinnamon mare as she repositions her wings so they lay neatly along her spine. The water is cold, hurting her raw throat until it numbs, but the pain is a reminder that she isn't dreaming anymore. She is real.
Only when she has had her fill, Ygritte lifts her head, scanning with her good eye to see there are others here. Despite the early spring, the begonias in her other eye socket bloom vividly with a ferocity of life that no winter could cripple. Beqanna breathes with life, as it could never truly die, and perhaps, she mused wistfully to herself, that is why she too will go on living.
Ygritte presses her hoof against the still brittle frozen river edge to splinter, admiring the spider's web only momentarily before breaking it; she pauses, then plunges her painted lips into the icy water, a frozen kiss as she drinks. Beqanna is as it always was, a home of wayward souls, grappling for a foothold and for honor while others look for peace or even revenge. None of it pertains really to the cinnamon mare as she repositions her wings so they lay neatly along her spine. The water is cold, hurting her raw throat until it numbs, but the pain is a reminder that she isn't dreaming anymore. She is real.
Only when she has had her fill, Ygritte lifts her head, scanning with her good eye to see there are others here. Despite the early spring, the begonias in her other eye socket bloom vividly with a ferocity of life that no winter could cripple. Beqanna breathes with life, as it could never truly die, and perhaps, she mused wistfully to herself, that is why she too will go on living.
Ygritte.
Short, but I appreciate you helping me dust off the laptop