11-05-2019, 05:09 PM
I was in the darkness, so darkness I became;
There is more to Craft than she knows, that with this wretched awakening came more. This has not come to pass with her, yet, she knows only the powers she had for years, her telepathy, her hypnotism.
(Stolen, they’d been, tricked from her mother - a parting gift before she had bewitched Scissors into walking into the sea. It will be years before she puts together that Scissors had been a magician, and should have stopped it. Love was a dangerous thing.)
Death has not crossed her mind, other than the fright she last remembers. Her strange, vivid nightmare. She knows something is wrong, just not what. But she stays steady, or, as steady as she can manage.
And from afar, does she look dead? No gravedirt dusts her brow, her body shows no sign of rot. There is something, perhaps - not a physical thing, but a sense, because she is an anachronism, whether she knows it or not.
But she is beautiful - that remains. Gold with cornsilk mane. Planier now, perhaps, as the world grew fuller with fantastical creatures, horses of all colors, shimmering and shifting into mythical things. It may be that she no longer stands out as she once did, dwarfed by the magic of the world.
Someone comes, finally, a gray mare. Craft looks at her, curious, almost grateful. She is grateful that she is not alone anymore, that perhaps this mare will know the way to the deserts. There is no recognition in the mare’s eyes - her message slipped by unheard, then - but it doesn’t matter.
“Hello,” she says, voice soft. There is no sign of disuse in her voice, it seems that it, too, snapped fully back into existence. She smiles.
“I’m Craft, of the deserts,” she begins. She’s often announced the two together, not wanting her name separated from the land that had healed her.
“I think I was sleepwalking, to end up here,” she says, shaking her head, smiling, as if this was a common thing, something to be laughed about.
Truth was, she’d never sleep-walked in her life.
Craft