11-18-2017, 04:14 PM
hard liquor mixed with a little bit of intellect
 | Wound had come to Tephra in the midst of winter. Though she knows that spring has arrived (the scent of it lingers on the edges of the borders and the itchy feel of it spreads through her body) there is no sign in the change of seasons. She’d spent the majority of the past weeks exploring every inch of the land. Although her bravery had been abundant in the field, she had been steering clear of the more socialized parts of Tephra. The threats whispered by her brothers in the evenings often kept her away from finding friends. Nearly every day of her childhood, her older siblings would tell her that the outside world did not accept abominations like themselves (the outcast, the flawed, the unpredictable). They would sing to her stories of adventuring past the eyesight of one another and being ripped apart by dangerous tooth and threatening claw. For years, she had believed their words. Some of their words rang true - destruction and death did linger in the world like a potent virus - but some of them were lies. The evidence was found in the field, when she limped in with a raised chin. Frightened, intimidated stares had been tossed her way (children had been pulled closer and wanderers had moved away) but there had been no shredding of flesh. Her brothers had told her there was no life past their little band, and yet she had been able to prove them wrong. Wound had always loved the water. As a youngster she’d enjoyed stepping in up to her chest, allowing the liquid to shield her malformed leg as though it never existed. When she found out Tephra was really just an island among the sea (and each border was met with a shoreline), her adoration for the territory grew. However, she couldn’t swim during the day. With the heaviness of humidity and heat weighing on the backs of all who lived in the kingdom, the shores were often speckled with those enjoying the coolness of the ocean. So she went there under the cover of night, when most everyone else curled around their loved ones and slept. She is wading along - chest-deep in the salty, lapping waves - when her eyes catch sight of a figure on the shore. The moon is brilliant, illuminating feathery wings and a strong build of a man. Wound’s heart seizes in her chest for a moment before she compels her steps to head toward the shore in his direction. If the splashing of her legs against the waves does not draw his attention, certainly her uneven steps would. The rhythm of her footsteps is an unnatural song compared to the traditional beat of walking, and it often alerted those not looking of her uncomfortable appearance. She stops her steps at a hesitant position, still unsure of how to approach strangers. “Can’t sleep?” Her voice is low yet smooth while her coffee eyes inspect him with a curious expression. |
@[Warrick]