12-07-2015, 07:13 PM
Loam has a heart, obviously - she was not the walking dead after all.
She has a heart; the meat of it is slick red and throbbing.
What her heart lacks is motivation - either love or hate, there is only neutrality and indifference there now.
Loam’s heart is overripe, rotten - an apple full of worms.
The black hates the mornings; they are frivolous and frail.
One by one, the stars disappear and the sun burns too hot and bright. She keeps to the overgrowth and the underbrush where she can stay cool and shadowed. Loam could care less about the missing chill in the air, that snowy rivers now run thick and muddy. She is restless away from her scummy pond and in her restlessness, she strays right up to the side of a mare who looks sad.
“Why the long face?”
Oh the irony! Horses have long faces already but Loam is ever so serious… no, not really. She's not exactly laughing though. “You look like the world has ended.” Her face isn't exactly friendly, just sharp - because it's all flesh and bone.
Loam cocks a hip; it's not the solemnity in the sabino’s long stare that drew her in but the cracks in the heart that she sensed, a bit of iciness that makes her wait for the story. Okay, maybe it was the air of opportunity that Loam perceived was there, for what though remained just out of her reach. She frowns; “You seem familiar to me…” it escapes in an accusatory hiss. “I am certain we've never met before.” Her moods are mercurial after all.