12-31-2018, 08:44 PM
I had almost drifted off again, another dip into the void of rest that had been flickering at the back of my mind all night. Almost, and then a hoof and a head appeared, followed by the rest of his berry-dark bodice, and suddenly I found myself quite awake. He's a strange man, he'd be larger than me when if I were standing and full of health.
I am not standing or full of health. The ground draws my bones down until it feels that I may never stand again. The most I can do is look up at him, eyes defiant and fragile, waiting for him to know what he's seeing. It would be easy enough to stomp the pair of us out of existence. To rend spirit from flesh until even the truest of magics couldn't put us together again. That's what I expect, and what I wait for. How funny then, to see him turn his violence not on us, buy himself.
In mute fascination, I watch the dully glinting ichor pool on his shoulder (didn't you create something so similar?), watch it drip, drop, fall. I am all prepared to muster something biting at his comment, a stinging retort. Instead what I breath out is a wordless hiss of pain. How remarkable that this is my only audible reaction, when the bones of my wing slid back into place, broke free from their badly healed positions and returning to their native orientations.
Scars crisscrossed my body, evidence of every bad decision I had made this far. None of them had hurt to receive quite so severely as this breaking and healing did. My very blood burned until it felt like there'd be nothing left of me when he was through.
To my surprise and mild disappointment, I survived. More than survived. I could breath again without my ribs aching in protest, tight new skin spanned half a dozen wounds that had been weeping openly moments before. Silvery new additions to my tapestry of scars. Hesitantly, I stretched my neck from side to side, testing newly knitted tissue as it pulled along my spine. Blinking away the tears that had risen in my eyes at the pain, I lifted my head to look better at the stranger before me.
Woolf.
"What the fuck kind of sadistic god decided that healing folk would be best done by cutting yourself open? Sick bastards, giving you a gift like that..."
Not my most gracious introduction, but I can't get the image out of my mind just yet. There are not many who'd tear themselves apart just to ease another's pain. Gods know I'm not one.
My legs feel stronger, but I don't yet dare try to stand. More so I fear what I'll find when my wings are asked to stretch and cup the air. I'm afraid they will not carry me. Still, I could be more civil. Push fear to the side and go forth. My life had been ruined by fear far too long. A bemused expression on my face, I sighed softly into the night air before trying again.
"Hello Woolf. My name is Sabra, and this... this is my daughter, Miela," My voice faltered gently, looking back down at the faded filly. Her barrel hardly moved when she breathed anymore. Swallowing hard, I grit my teeth a moment before going on. "You're not wrong. A rough go, and mainly my own fault." The skin along my crest prickled uncomfortably for a moment, a new reminder of my idiocy. "That's what I get for biting dragons, I suppose." It'd be funny if it didn't hurt so much. It hurt more than I'd thought was possible, in ways I didn't think were possible.
@[woolf]
I am not standing or full of health. The ground draws my bones down until it feels that I may never stand again. The most I can do is look up at him, eyes defiant and fragile, waiting for him to know what he's seeing. It would be easy enough to stomp the pair of us out of existence. To rend spirit from flesh until even the truest of magics couldn't put us together again. That's what I expect, and what I wait for. How funny then, to see him turn his violence not on us, buy himself.
In mute fascination, I watch the dully glinting ichor pool on his shoulder (didn't you create something so similar?), watch it drip, drop, fall. I am all prepared to muster something biting at his comment, a stinging retort. Instead what I breath out is a wordless hiss of pain. How remarkable that this is my only audible reaction, when the bones of my wing slid back into place, broke free from their badly healed positions and returning to their native orientations.
Scars crisscrossed my body, evidence of every bad decision I had made this far. None of them had hurt to receive quite so severely as this breaking and healing did. My very blood burned until it felt like there'd be nothing left of me when he was through.
To my surprise and mild disappointment, I survived. More than survived. I could breath again without my ribs aching in protest, tight new skin spanned half a dozen wounds that had been weeping openly moments before. Silvery new additions to my tapestry of scars. Hesitantly, I stretched my neck from side to side, testing newly knitted tissue as it pulled along my spine. Blinking away the tears that had risen in my eyes at the pain, I lifted my head to look better at the stranger before me.
Woolf.
"What the fuck kind of sadistic god decided that healing folk would be best done by cutting yourself open? Sick bastards, giving you a gift like that..."
Not my most gracious introduction, but I can't get the image out of my mind just yet. There are not many who'd tear themselves apart just to ease another's pain. Gods know I'm not one.
My legs feel stronger, but I don't yet dare try to stand. More so I fear what I'll find when my wings are asked to stretch and cup the air. I'm afraid they will not carry me. Still, I could be more civil. Push fear to the side and go forth. My life had been ruined by fear far too long. A bemused expression on my face, I sighed softly into the night air before trying again.
"Hello Woolf. My name is Sabra, and this... this is my daughter, Miela," My voice faltered gently, looking back down at the faded filly. Her barrel hardly moved when she breathed anymore. Swallowing hard, I grit my teeth a moment before going on. "You're not wrong. A rough go, and mainly my own fault." The skin along my crest prickled uncomfortably for a moment, a new reminder of my idiocy. "That's what I get for biting dragons, I suppose." It'd be funny if it didn't hurt so much. It hurt more than I'd thought was possible, in ways I didn't think were possible.
@[woolf]