09-02-2016, 04:26 PM
Across the sea
A pale moon rises
The ships have come to carry you home
Epithet
She was still not used to this weak feeling in her legs. Her normally pristine white/grey pelt was suddenly carrying the dinginess of the mud and the wreckage of the land that had gone through the ultimate forging of old magic and new—though she could sense the magic around her, she could no longer access it… tap into its sheer power. The clouds were now rolling in, and the world around Epithet was as grey as she was. The color had almost gone out from the expanse, and as she looked to the horizon, she once again saw the fog against the edge of the world… It was thick, almost impenetrable, as if it beckoned exploring to the end of one’s own life. Having just lost what was precious to her—her own identity—she shifted her shoulder and turned away from it, stopping short to look up above the hills to spy a tall snow-covered mountain where before there had been none. She nary gave a squeal before she backed up into a tree, and with a rather ungraceful umph fell on her face, splattered with mud and moss.
She was a mess, and she was not used to presenting herself to the world thus. The daughter of Charlemagne had until this moment held it together with the only serenity she knew, but the madness that lay in her blood—almost as rampant as the magic—was now coming to the fore, and threatened to take hold of her. She took a breath, and attempted to get up, to prove that she was better than her mother ever thought she’d be—which was little more than a thought and a one night stand.
She righted herself, took a step, and stumbled. There was no grace or dignity when one loses every last ounce of strength that they have known their entire lives. Instead, she sighed, and headed in the direction of the river… if it was still there.
She desperately needed a bath.