03-16-2017, 06:50 PM
Ichor is beside herself --
There is a disconnect between this self and the self she can feel just out of reach beneath her skin. This shape is bloated with blandness (to her, because it is not sensational and strange!); there is an Ichor that is not just a filly becoming a mare in sleek skin and sinewy muscle, but a fantastic beast that hides in the thick of her blood and marrow. She is cut off from it - from them, the family that exists in one extreme or the other: normal or fantastic. It feels like a limb severed, phantom pains that bolster her determination and straighten the steel of her spine but also make her want to cower inside the hideous shape of her own shadow because she knows that is not who she is or was meant to be.
She feels forgotten - as forgotten as spindrift on a beach.
Pretty to look at, there one second and gone the next.
Maybe she is spindrift…
Her nose skims the tops of the crinkly tussocks of grass; she is disenchanted by the notion of having to eat it and sometimes, she thinks her gut rebels against the thought of it because she ought to be siphoning nectar from the nearby flowers - anything but consuming mouthfuls of crunchy boring grass, and how she knows this, she cannot say except that it just feels aberrant to her nature. The thick dull tongue that crowds the herbivore teeth is no friend of hers, it lays there flat and stupid and trips up her speech. She hates it - all of it! All of this! Begins to seethe as she seeks them out, almost frantic in the way her eyes run over every shape of horse for signs of lamprey or moth. Her face is ever grim and darkened by constant disappointment --
Then!
A shriek -
A shout -
A figure that moves herky-jerky away from the river’s shimmering blue breast towards her, plain old Ichor. Her name comes stilted from a mouth unsuitable for kisses and speech but she’d know that voice anywhere; her mother, beautiful and emboldened by a return to her true self - a self that Ichor recognizes dimly through a haze of newness and hunger as a foal, but knows just the same as none other than her mother, fully restored to her hairless, toothy self. “Mother!” she barks happily, dancing forward on eager toes (hooves, really) to bury the side of her face against Karris’ cool slimy shoulder. Ichor breathes in the rich riverine scent of the lamprey-mare and sighs, a little more happy - gaining a tiny foothold in this hellish place that sees her as nothing more than a horse.
(When she is so much more! Fantastic beasts!)
It feels like heaven, or near enough to it as she’ll ever get to run her lips over the slime-slick skin that she remembers well before the Reckoning made them boring and ill for selves that had gone deep beneath their skins into long slumbers. (Some have reawakened, like her mother but she - she feels it beat against her bones, trapped and angry.) Her mouth travels upwards, towards the gilled neck and beyond to press a kiss to the grey-brown check. “Mother,” she breathes out heavily above that circular terrifying mouth that has never scared her. Happy but still heavy-hearted, she lays her cheek against Karris’ and thinks fondly of her earliest moments at her mother’s side; back then, the world had seemed so different, like she looked at it through a different set of eyes (she had, she knows this but tells herself it’s not true because a lie is easier to believe then knowing she was made like them - fantastic beasts).
There is a flurry, soft as a snowflake even though the pair of them could easily cause a stir --
She opens her eyes and lifts her head as she feels her mother lean away from her, lean into another and she looks over her mother’s smooth back to see the familiar outline of her father in all his moth-gilded splendor. Ichor cannot help but smile; the two of them were sensational to look at it and maybe that’s just the jaded opinion of a child that came from them but even if she had not been of their making, she would still have stopped and stared because they were terrible in their beauty and beautiful in their terribleness. Her heart grew fit to burst as Elysium moved his many limbs forward to lay his temple to her cheek; her eyes closed and kept the tears at bay - kept them from just breaking down her face in a tide of damp happiness.
“Longed for it as we have,” she echoes in the barest breathy murmur she can manage. Her troubles with speech are rapidly dissolving in the bliss of having rediscovered her mother and father. She pulls her head back, “I’ve seen Min and another.” but she doesn’t tell them that they are like her - ordinary, so sad and ordinary. Ichor tucks the tiny burden of this knowledge away into her breast, close to her heart - close to where her own fantastic self sits impatient and causing her heart to always thump faster than it should (the knowing she was other than ordinary might be the death of her one day!).
There is a disconnect between this self and the self she can feel just out of reach beneath her skin. This shape is bloated with blandness (to her, because it is not sensational and strange!); there is an Ichor that is not just a filly becoming a mare in sleek skin and sinewy muscle, but a fantastic beast that hides in the thick of her blood and marrow. She is cut off from it - from them, the family that exists in one extreme or the other: normal or fantastic. It feels like a limb severed, phantom pains that bolster her determination and straighten the steel of her spine but also make her want to cower inside the hideous shape of her own shadow because she knows that is not who she is or was meant to be.
She feels forgotten - as forgotten as spindrift on a beach.
Pretty to look at, there one second and gone the next.
Maybe she is spindrift…
Her nose skims the tops of the crinkly tussocks of grass; she is disenchanted by the notion of having to eat it and sometimes, she thinks her gut rebels against the thought of it because she ought to be siphoning nectar from the nearby flowers - anything but consuming mouthfuls of crunchy boring grass, and how she knows this, she cannot say except that it just feels aberrant to her nature. The thick dull tongue that crowds the herbivore teeth is no friend of hers, it lays there flat and stupid and trips up her speech. She hates it - all of it! All of this! Begins to seethe as she seeks them out, almost frantic in the way her eyes run over every shape of horse for signs of lamprey or moth. Her face is ever grim and darkened by constant disappointment --
Then!
A shriek -
A shout -
A figure that moves herky-jerky away from the river’s shimmering blue breast towards her, plain old Ichor. Her name comes stilted from a mouth unsuitable for kisses and speech but she’d know that voice anywhere; her mother, beautiful and emboldened by a return to her true self - a self that Ichor recognizes dimly through a haze of newness and hunger as a foal, but knows just the same as none other than her mother, fully restored to her hairless, toothy self. “Mother!” she barks happily, dancing forward on eager toes (hooves, really) to bury the side of her face against Karris’ cool slimy shoulder. Ichor breathes in the rich riverine scent of the lamprey-mare and sighs, a little more happy - gaining a tiny foothold in this hellish place that sees her as nothing more than a horse.
(When she is so much more! Fantastic beasts!)
It feels like heaven, or near enough to it as she’ll ever get to run her lips over the slime-slick skin that she remembers well before the Reckoning made them boring and ill for selves that had gone deep beneath their skins into long slumbers. (Some have reawakened, like her mother but she - she feels it beat against her bones, trapped and angry.) Her mouth travels upwards, towards the gilled neck and beyond to press a kiss to the grey-brown check. “Mother,” she breathes out heavily above that circular terrifying mouth that has never scared her. Happy but still heavy-hearted, she lays her cheek against Karris’ and thinks fondly of her earliest moments at her mother’s side; back then, the world had seemed so different, like she looked at it through a different set of eyes (she had, she knows this but tells herself it’s not true because a lie is easier to believe then knowing she was made like them - fantastic beasts).
There is a flurry, soft as a snowflake even though the pair of them could easily cause a stir --
She opens her eyes and lifts her head as she feels her mother lean away from her, lean into another and she looks over her mother’s smooth back to see the familiar outline of her father in all his moth-gilded splendor. Ichor cannot help but smile; the two of them were sensational to look at it and maybe that’s just the jaded opinion of a child that came from them but even if she had not been of their making, she would still have stopped and stared because they were terrible in their beauty and beautiful in their terribleness. Her heart grew fit to burst as Elysium moved his many limbs forward to lay his temple to her cheek; her eyes closed and kept the tears at bay - kept them from just breaking down her face in a tide of damp happiness.
“Longed for it as we have,” she echoes in the barest breathy murmur she can manage. Her troubles with speech are rapidly dissolving in the bliss of having rediscovered her mother and father. She pulls her head back, “I’ve seen Min and another.” but she doesn’t tell them that they are like her - ordinary, so sad and ordinary. Ichor tucks the tiny burden of this knowledge away into her breast, close to her heart - close to where her own fantastic self sits impatient and causing her heart to always thump faster than it should (the knowing she was other than ordinary might be the death of her one day!).