living for the past
because the future's gone. praying in the dark that you won't go home. i should've said it better, i should've set fire to a letter. but i could run to your apartment, hope i get it started better than before; and i could write it in a poem, pretend i used to know you better than before.
She can remember the days of her youth as if they had been only moments ago. The sulfuric scents of Tephra still melt into the framework of her dreams and she can feel the warmth of the Eastern ocean dance across her heels. Her mother used to tell her of the days she spent in those Tephran waves during her pregnancy, letting the salt and sand soak into her swollen legs and ease the pain. Wishbone can picture Wolfbane’s yellow-and-blue face, twisted in a smile full of fangs, as they raced through the forest and lept across the lava-streams. In truth, those days are only six years past; but the time between her childhood and this moment on Nerine’s border stretches further than she can see.
The filly approaches as a stark reminder of those playful days. Despite the wilderness of Wishbone’s heart, the reckless smile that had been dashed across her mouth softens into something gentler. Perhaps age has made her warm to children (and how her younger self might laugh and crow and taunt about this fact!), but she likes to think otherwise. Wishbone blames it on the girl’s striking appearance to a dear friend — a friend she left Nerine with.
Her voice is the same honey-whiskey song, laced with the sweetness of feminity but rough with the familiarity of Tephra’s ashen skies. “Hello.” Although the girl’s voice trips, Wishbone senses the bravery held deep within; it isn’t every day that someone as seemingly meek and young as she approaches a complete stranger. The mahogany would have done so in an instant in her own childhood (with a bold tongue and barely-held-together politeness) and the thought brings sincere warmth to her wild hazel eyes. “I’m Wishbone. Is Breckin still the Khaleesi? I’m looking for her.”
She pauses a moment, eyeing the girl with a borderline stern expression. “What’s your name?”
The filly approaches as a stark reminder of those playful days. Despite the wilderness of Wishbone’s heart, the reckless smile that had been dashed across her mouth softens into something gentler. Perhaps age has made her warm to children (and how her younger self might laugh and crow and taunt about this fact!), but she likes to think otherwise. Wishbone blames it on the girl’s striking appearance to a dear friend — a friend she left Nerine with.
Her voice is the same honey-whiskey song, laced with the sweetness of feminity but rough with the familiarity of Tephra’s ashen skies. “Hello.” Although the girl’s voice trips, Wishbone senses the bravery held deep within; it isn’t every day that someone as seemingly meek and young as she approaches a complete stranger. The mahogany would have done so in an instant in her own childhood (with a bold tongue and barely-held-together politeness) and the thought brings sincere warmth to her wild hazel eyes. “I’m Wishbone. Is Breckin still the Khaleesi? I’m looking for her.”
She pauses a moment, eyeing the girl with a borderline stern expression. “What’s your name?”
@[Eurwen]