10-15-2015, 02:15 AM
This is the story of how, when the wolves knocked,
I met them at the door and I became the beast instead.
I met them at the door and I became the beast instead.
It isn’t enough that the food ran out, no.
That’s not even the fucking worst of it.
Being led by someone with no sense of direction, dragged through hell and high water—that’s bad, yeah. Leaving elders behind because you know they can’t keep up is pretty awful. But the children? Leaving the littlest ones behind, just because you can make more? That’s the worst of it. That’s pretty fucking awful. And Rhylie knows, deep down in the darkest parts of her soul, that she’s next; she’s going to be the next one the herd leaves behind because she’s just too weak to keep up with the rest of them. It’s her own mother that breaks the news to her. Because, hey, that’s just the way life is, doll.
So a couple of weeks go by, she’s all cried out; bitter, but definitely all cried out when she spots what she thinks are the tip-top of mountains—unless she’s hallucinating. Which, at this point, is very plausible. The last drink she’d had came from a dirty puddle the day before. Her mouth is so dry that her tongue feels funny and fat; she can’t remember what being in the shade feels like, the sun has been fucking relentless and she’s pretty sure her brain is fried. Maybe. Possibly.
Actually, could she still form a coherent thought if her brain were fried?
Is that even a legitimate question?
She should probably never say it aloud, you know.
If those are mountains and there’s food and water.
And she doesn’t die before getting there.
That would be pretty nice.
Luckily, they are mountains.
Jungly, mountainy mountain things.
She spends the next few days in said jungle; until, you know, she realizes she isn’t the only horse in town and they’re all big, buff scary mares and she’s quick to get the fuck out as soon as she can before she’s detected. Which isn’t easy, mind you; whoever runs the place keeps a tight ship and she’s half-convinced they just let her leave for the hell of it. They have no use for a scrawny, frightened little girl child. Bag of bones she is. Probably won’t make it much farther. But Rhylie does.
Somehow, she manages to make it all the way to a meadow; THE Meadow, the natives correct her. Because apparently it’s a super fancy, super important meadow. The meadow to end all meadows. Or something. Rhylie snorts, shaking her head and slinking along; there’s… a loooot of horses. But also plenty of food to sustain them. Some of them are weird colors, some of them have wings—horns! She’s pretty sure she just saw a stallion turn into a squirrel and bound off. Which is pretty freaking fantastic. She… kind of wishes her family could see it. The spotty yearling frowns, flicking her ears back. She doubts they ever made it to wherever it is her father was taking them.
That’s not even the fucking worst of it.
Being led by someone with no sense of direction, dragged through hell and high water—that’s bad, yeah. Leaving elders behind because you know they can’t keep up is pretty awful. But the children? Leaving the littlest ones behind, just because you can make more? That’s the worst of it. That’s pretty fucking awful. And Rhylie knows, deep down in the darkest parts of her soul, that she’s next; she’s going to be the next one the herd leaves behind because she’s just too weak to keep up with the rest of them. It’s her own mother that breaks the news to her. Because, hey, that’s just the way life is, doll.
So a couple of weeks go by, she’s all cried out; bitter, but definitely all cried out when she spots what she thinks are the tip-top of mountains—unless she’s hallucinating. Which, at this point, is very plausible. The last drink she’d had came from a dirty puddle the day before. Her mouth is so dry that her tongue feels funny and fat; she can’t remember what being in the shade feels like, the sun has been fucking relentless and she’s pretty sure her brain is fried. Maybe. Possibly.
Actually, could she still form a coherent thought if her brain were fried?
Is that even a legitimate question?
She should probably never say it aloud, you know.
If those are mountains and there’s food and water.
And she doesn’t die before getting there.
That would be pretty nice.
Luckily, they are mountains.
Jungly, mountainy mountain things.
She spends the next few days in said jungle; until, you know, she realizes she isn’t the only horse in town and they’re all big, buff scary mares and she’s quick to get the fuck out as soon as she can before she’s detected. Which isn’t easy, mind you; whoever runs the place keeps a tight ship and she’s half-convinced they just let her leave for the hell of it. They have no use for a scrawny, frightened little girl child. Bag of bones she is. Probably won’t make it much farther. But Rhylie does.
Somehow, she manages to make it all the way to a meadow; THE Meadow, the natives correct her. Because apparently it’s a super fancy, super important meadow. The meadow to end all meadows. Or something. Rhylie snorts, shaking her head and slinking along; there’s… a loooot of horses. But also plenty of food to sustain them. Some of them are weird colors, some of them have wings—horns! She’s pretty sure she just saw a stallion turn into a squirrel and bound off. Which is pretty freaking fantastic. She… kind of wishes her family could see it. The spotty yearling frowns, flicking her ears back. She doubts they ever made it to wherever it is her father was taking them.
R H Y L I E !