02-18-2016, 01:50 PM
He left her - -
Gone, like a wisp of smoke.
Gone, without a goodbye.
Fool! She calls herself as she broods beside her favorite pond, green and scummy, in the densest part of the forest where none of them go. There is little light in the clearing where the weeds choke out the grass and every stone holds moss, and she finds refuge in this place of hers’ but there is little solace to be had staring at the thick sick skin of algae on the pond, where no frog sits and no bug skims the surface of. Here, this is stillness and her dark self and the sick sad heart in her that hurts, that she berates and tells to shut up! Not that the slick red muscle obeys her very much, she tried to tell it to halt its beat and yet, she is still here because Loam could never just end her self. Life was a disease she preferred to the option of nonexistence and she could not stop being any more than she could will her heart to stop beating.
In the back of her mind, she knows it is not like her to brood over buckskin flesh and dark eyes - she could simply call any of her daughters to her side and be reminded that none of them are his, so how can she say that she really loved him? Gross, even her brain is betraying her and using words she would prefer her brain would forget like the L-word that should never be thought of let alone uttered. She realizes she needs a distraction, the pond that usually provides her with a strange peace is not doing the trick today and Loam needs… well, she isn’t quite sure what it is that she needs, maybe just to move since she is stiff from standing in one spot for too long, but she tells herself she needs to be around them to realize she doesn’t want to be around them or maybe she wants to play her games with them. It has been a while… she muses.
She blazes her own set of trails through the forest, so that when she finally breaks from the treeline to the fanfare of twigs snapping and cracking (it sounds like a lovely chorus of broken bones!), she is a beastly sight as usual - wild, green eyed, mossy, scratched and thus, bleeding - a true wreck as usual, and she eyes the open lay of the land before her with her usual imperial sense of disinterest, despite the broken twig caught in her forelock that snakes thickly down the sharp length of her face. Okay, so Loam looks a bit more haggard than usual - more woodsy and witchy than ever, and there is a wildness in her eyes that wasn’t entirely there before, not so present, and she thinks of who will be the next victim and if she can call up her black hound of a stallion and make him kill again but she hasn’t really bothered seeking him out much. Maybe she needs a new pet, one that would be susceptible to her charms but even the thought of that bores her and she thinks of her pond and of retreat and starts to spin around on her heel when she hears a twig snap nearby and she swings her head sharply in the direction.
“Who goes there?” she demands, as if they were trespassing on her part of the forest.
Gone, like a wisp of smoke.
Gone, without a goodbye.
Fool! She calls herself as she broods beside her favorite pond, green and scummy, in the densest part of the forest where none of them go. There is little light in the clearing where the weeds choke out the grass and every stone holds moss, and she finds refuge in this place of hers’ but there is little solace to be had staring at the thick sick skin of algae on the pond, where no frog sits and no bug skims the surface of. Here, this is stillness and her dark self and the sick sad heart in her that hurts, that she berates and tells to shut up! Not that the slick red muscle obeys her very much, she tried to tell it to halt its beat and yet, she is still here because Loam could never just end her self. Life was a disease she preferred to the option of nonexistence and she could not stop being any more than she could will her heart to stop beating.
In the back of her mind, she knows it is not like her to brood over buckskin flesh and dark eyes - she could simply call any of her daughters to her side and be reminded that none of them are his, so how can she say that she really loved him? Gross, even her brain is betraying her and using words she would prefer her brain would forget like the L-word that should never be thought of let alone uttered. She realizes she needs a distraction, the pond that usually provides her with a strange peace is not doing the trick today and Loam needs… well, she isn’t quite sure what it is that she needs, maybe just to move since she is stiff from standing in one spot for too long, but she tells herself she needs to be around them to realize she doesn’t want to be around them or maybe she wants to play her games with them. It has been a while… she muses.
She blazes her own set of trails through the forest, so that when she finally breaks from the treeline to the fanfare of twigs snapping and cracking (it sounds like a lovely chorus of broken bones!), she is a beastly sight as usual - wild, green eyed, mossy, scratched and thus, bleeding - a true wreck as usual, and she eyes the open lay of the land before her with her usual imperial sense of disinterest, despite the broken twig caught in her forelock that snakes thickly down the sharp length of her face. Okay, so Loam looks a bit more haggard than usual - more woodsy and witchy than ever, and there is a wildness in her eyes that wasn’t entirely there before, not so present, and she thinks of who will be the next victim and if she can call up her black hound of a stallion and make him kill again but she hasn’t really bothered seeking him out much. Maybe she needs a new pet, one that would be susceptible to her charms but even the thought of that bores her and she thinks of her pond and of retreat and starts to spin around on her heel when she hears a twig snap nearby and she swings her head sharply in the direction.
“Who goes there?” she demands, as if they were trespassing on her part of the forest.
ooc: ugh, I'm rusty and this post sucked!