11-23-2019, 03:59 PM
I was in the darkness, so darkness I became;
The mare is strange, repeating herself, sounding awed, or frightened, and Craft is almost impatient. All she wants is to return home, to forget this strange night, where she dreamed her own death and woke somewhere strange and unfamiliar, with no idea how to make it home. It’s all highly unpleasant, and she wishes only for her sands, for their warmth.
She is not prepared for the mare’s next words, had almost tuned them out (not out of an intentional impoliteness, she is merely very tired, the anxiety of being lost gnawing at her strength).
Gone…gone with the reckoning.
Craft knows of no reckoning, the only reckoning will be the one she wreaks if she cannot be pointed home.
The mare keeps talking, claims that she – Craft! – has been dead and gone.
She thinks, again, of the dream. The realness of it. Blood stinking on the sand. The pain searing through her as her ribs broke.
She inhales, sharp, and she takes in the breath easily. She is unbroken. No blood dries on her skin.
It was a dream. It was a dream.
“Don’t lie, Epithet,” she says, and her voice is colder now. She has grow kinder, as she aged, as she found peace in the deserts, but that Craft is further gone now, as she tries to right herself, to understand why this stranger has found her, only to spout lies.
“I had a dream,” she says, “and I sleepwalked here. I was just in the deserts. I’m only trying to make it home, I don’t know why you’re trying to make this difficult.”
Craft
@[Epithet] sorry to make you wait 100 years only to have her be mean -_-