08-22-2018, 11:39 PM
our demons are all around us and they don't come from hell
every single one of them reminds us of ourselves
every single one of them reminds us of ourselves
Her body aches for the Jungle.
She cannot escape it. She cannot escape the vague rootlessness that has taken over her life—the way that she wanders with no escape. The way that no place feels like home (not even resting against Rodrik’s side, his unnatural skeletal body warming her scarred flesh). She is a warrior without a sword, without a purpose, without a reason. For her entire life, she has pledged herself to the Amazons and to the jungle. She was raised there. She eventually served and lead and fought there. All of her memories were made in service to the jungle, to the land that had captured whatever pieces of her heart were made to be caught.
So in the afterglow of the Reckoning, she has wandered.
For a while, her wanderings were nearby, taking her simply around the borders of various lands, haunting the edges and the trails without thinking. Then, slowly, they began to take her further and further out. She began to lose track of time—to lose track of where she was. Then, suddenly, daytime wanderings began to not stop when the sun began to dip down in the sky. Instead, she simply kept walking, or she found a quiet place to nest for the night. Then, she gave up on trying to find her way back to the home that was not a home. Instead, she kept going, following whatever scent or breeze struck her fancy.
But even this has an end, and her wanderings have once again led her back into the heart of Beqanna.
To the heart of the only thing that has ever laid claim to hers.
He is not difficult to find, not difficult to track, and although her pulse doesn’t race at the sight of him, there is a familiar warmth that spreads throughout her at the sight of him, unique as it may be. She does not make a scene. She does not gush or make flowery declarations—but she also does not apologize. Not for her absence. Not for her return. After all, she is still a Queen to her bones. She does not bend to the expectation of anyone, even him. Instead she simply presses worn velvet lips to his cheek and breathes in the scent of him, something about it comforting. “Rodrik,” she greets, the only sound to fall.
@[Rodrik]