05-23-2018, 11:30 AM
haze like a fever
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
She hadn’t expected them to flock so quickly to her young body, yet they do. While her eyes scan the expanse of the forest, a voice growls behind her and Wishbone is quick to jump and spin, amber eyes searching for the voice. It’s a mare so short the mahogany girl resists the urge to laugh aloud (she’s never seen Modicum Mortem either, or else she might giggle at his height too) and she bites her lip to stop herself.
Wishbone opens her sable mouth to speak, but a familiar figure is sliding out of the shadows. The girl recognizes Jackel from her time before Nerine (when she had been chasing seagulls and swimming with whales and climbing volcanoes and hopping over lava-streams) and her brows pull together under the tangled mess of her dark forelock. Wishbone can remember, not so fondly, the golden mare not reacting in the slightest when a bubble of molten lava burst and splattered onto her heel.
Curiously, her head lowers slightly to look at Jackel’s leg. But before she can, the golden mare is asking questions that fill Wishbone’s gut with mingled dread and disgust. “You’re still just as fucking disgusting as you were then.” Dammit, Wishbone. More often than not the girl is able to rein in her words and censor herself, but the excitement of adventure and the thrill of danger causes her tongue to toss all caution to the wind.
“I’m here to investigate just how true the rumors are, but so far I am not impressed.” The tension that lies over Beqanna is thick on their shoulders, mostly thanks to Sylva itself. Her eyes glance toward the dark mare and, god Wishbone you’re really screwing yourself over, she says, “God, you’re short. Are you supposed to be scary?”
Wishbone opens her sable mouth to speak, but a familiar figure is sliding out of the shadows. The girl recognizes Jackel from her time before Nerine (when she had been chasing seagulls and swimming with whales and climbing volcanoes and hopping over lava-streams) and her brows pull together under the tangled mess of her dark forelock. Wishbone can remember, not so fondly, the golden mare not reacting in the slightest when a bubble of molten lava burst and splattered onto her heel.
Curiously, her head lowers slightly to look at Jackel’s leg. But before she can, the golden mare is asking questions that fill Wishbone’s gut with mingled dread and disgust. “You’re still just as fucking disgusting as you were then.” Dammit, Wishbone. More often than not the girl is able to rein in her words and censor herself, but the excitement of adventure and the thrill of danger causes her tongue to toss all caution to the wind.
“I’m here to investigate just how true the rumors are, but so far I am not impressed.” The tension that lies over Beqanna is thick on their shoulders, mostly thanks to Sylva itself. Her eyes glance toward the dark mare and, god Wishbone you’re really screwing yourself over, she says, “God, you’re short. Are you supposed to be scary?”
@[Abra] / @[Jackel] / @[Svedka]