07-12-2015, 10:53 PM
what is dead may never die;
She isn't terribly familiar with decay. In fact, she has yet to see any kind of death, or even any kind of injury. Perhaps she had, in the life before this one, but that life is fleeting, flying away, slipping further with every day. It's been destroyed by the Four Certainties, the things she knows absolutely: the name of her father (Carnage), the name of her mother (Librette), the place where she lives (the Valley), and her own name (Aletheia). These are the four truths, and she's rather content with them. It's impossible to miss the smoke, to miss the ephemeral moments that may never have been. It's impossible to miss something you think you might have imagined.
But the fact remains that she was deposited in the meadow unceremoniously by something or someone unknown, left there to stumble off with nothing but the four certainties and smokelike memories of what was, or at least, might have been. She'd found her way here without issue, as though a map was stamped into her brain (and maybe it was, with how often Librette found her way here and how surely Carnage was tied to this place). And here she'd remained ever since, learning every inch of the land, sometimes encountering Thorrun, who seemed more or less the only other regular inhabitant of the place.
That, and she'd been to the field. A whole lot.
She's just heading to the field again when she smells it – a strange scent that tickles her nostrils. If she were a normal horse, no doubt she'd want to run the other way, to flee the scent of death. But she doesn't know what death is, and she certainly doesn't know that it has a smell. She doesn't know anything, just that it smells (very, very vaguely) like a horse, and she feels obligated to investigate.
When she sees it, she pauses for a moment and tilts her head to regard it curiously. She is not repulsed; she has no frame of reference for something that should be repulsive, and even if she did, she'd have too much morbid curiosity to care. Perhaps she should care, perhaps she should be traumatized – but it doesn't occur to her. None of her natural instincts and warning signs fire. She is simply intrigued.
She moves with easy steps toward the stranger. She is a pretty girl, young, grey, dainty and delicate. Her face is constantly neutral, unimpressed even when she studies something that grabs her interest. Her eyes are cold, icy, blue. She comes to a graceful halt once she nears it, smelling the sharp scent of something she cannot identify.
Closer now, she looks the horse over in more detail. She notes with fascination the way the maggots seem to crawl, the way the flesh seems to hang, the way it all seems to hold together in a way she's never seen before. She finally puts it together: this might be something unnatural. But still it doesn't concern her; after all, she herself seems to suck the life out of anything she touches, plant and animal (including horse) alike. Even now, the grass under her hooves is beginning to very gently wilt.
And so, her face cool and dispassionate, she offers him a nod of greeting. "Welcome to the Valley." her voice is flat but pleasant, like the voices used on audiobooks. She pauses a moment before speaking again, and when she does her tone is that of one observing something. Not terrified, not judgmental, no more nor less affected than a typical horse might be when speaking of the weather. "You don't look like you should be alive."
But the fact remains that she was deposited in the meadow unceremoniously by something or someone unknown, left there to stumble off with nothing but the four certainties and smokelike memories of what was, or at least, might have been. She'd found her way here without issue, as though a map was stamped into her brain (and maybe it was, with how often Librette found her way here and how surely Carnage was tied to this place). And here she'd remained ever since, learning every inch of the land, sometimes encountering Thorrun, who seemed more or less the only other regular inhabitant of the place.
That, and she'd been to the field. A whole lot.
She's just heading to the field again when she smells it – a strange scent that tickles her nostrils. If she were a normal horse, no doubt she'd want to run the other way, to flee the scent of death. But she doesn't know what death is, and she certainly doesn't know that it has a smell. She doesn't know anything, just that it smells (very, very vaguely) like a horse, and she feels obligated to investigate.
When she sees it, she pauses for a moment and tilts her head to regard it curiously. She is not repulsed; she has no frame of reference for something that should be repulsive, and even if she did, she'd have too much morbid curiosity to care. Perhaps she should care, perhaps she should be traumatized – but it doesn't occur to her. None of her natural instincts and warning signs fire. She is simply intrigued.
She moves with easy steps toward the stranger. She is a pretty girl, young, grey, dainty and delicate. Her face is constantly neutral, unimpressed even when she studies something that grabs her interest. Her eyes are cold, icy, blue. She comes to a graceful halt once she nears it, smelling the sharp scent of something she cannot identify.
Closer now, she looks the horse over in more detail. She notes with fascination the way the maggots seem to crawl, the way the flesh seems to hang, the way it all seems to hold together in a way she's never seen before. She finally puts it together: this might be something unnatural. But still it doesn't concern her; after all, she herself seems to suck the life out of anything she touches, plant and animal (including horse) alike. Even now, the grass under her hooves is beginning to very gently wilt.
And so, her face cool and dispassionate, she offers him a nod of greeting. "Welcome to the Valley." her voice is flat but pleasant, like the voices used on audiobooks. She pauses a moment before speaking again, and when she does her tone is that of one observing something. Not terrified, not judgmental, no more nor less affected than a typical horse might be when speaking of the weather. "You don't look like you should be alive."
but rises again
Aletheia
harder and stronger