[private] Please stay, for this fear it will not die; Daemron.

[Noori]

Most days, most days stay the sole same
Please stay, for this fear it will not die
Down low, down amongst the thorn rows
Weeds grow, through the lilies and the vines

West - she spends her days going west. The pull is incessant, resembling an old magic with whom she has become unacquainted due to death and rebirth. In the limited understanding allowed to her these first months, she tries not to question much, instead obeying the powerful urge to travel west.

The lands are not as her childish mind remembers them, for she spent the majority of her life and indeed the entirety of her childhood in pre-Reckoning Beqanna; so when unfamiliar lands and their accompanying smells pass her by, Noori worries.

Vaguely she remembers dark powers being afoot in this new land, or else something akin to death; she thinks of the pale mare she found by the riverside some weeks ago, of how the blood dripped from her nostrils and how her every bone could be read through the thin veil of her dying skin. Noori wonders sometimes if she, too, had been dying of a sickness; but for now the child remains untouched by the contagion, and her weak mind abandons the somber topic after only a moment's retrospection.

Upon the dawn of her second week traveling westward, a new scent bombards her thin bark nostrils: ash. At first she balks, turning and fleeing out of pure instinct; the smell of burning is akin to the smell of melting flesh to a horse comprised of wood and spring. It takes hours and courage from what remains of her adult-self for the tiny porcelain nymph to reappear from whence she ran, trembling and wide-eyed in an unblinking green glow of a stare. With each step towards Tephra, the dark green glow emanating from the depths of the blood red cracks lining the pale white of her bark flesh strengthens, pulsating and reverberating as she approaches her final destination.

As she nears the base of the volcano, that incessant pull that she has felt since her rebirth finally ceases: whatever she came here for is wont to find her soon. Exhausted and still troubled by the scent of burning, Noori walks tightly in a circle before collapsing in a heap, eyes finally closing. With the sun high overhead, the dogwood flowers lining the red willow-fronds of her mane and tail slowly open, accepting the energy of the celestial fixture with the efficiency of one a hundred times her age.

noori

@[Daemron]