<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Amatic+SC" rel="stylesheet"><div align="center"><div style="border-left:#273a40 3px solid;border-right:#273a40 3px solid;background:#99a3a4;padding:16px 16px 12px 16px;width:500px;"><img src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a4/05/47/a40547754bbee4421bf6eea84ca20509.jpg" style="max-width:100%;border:1px solid #000;"><div style="width:500px;line-height:24px;font-family:amatic sc;font-size:50px;margin-left:-4px;text-shadow:#000 2px 0px 2px;color:#273a40;letter-spacing:1px;text-transform:lowercase;text-align:center;">take my soul & make it undone</div><div style="width:450px;padding:12px 4px 12px 4px;font-family:arial;text-transform:uppercase;font-size:9px;line-height:8px;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:center;color:#33454f;">be the one, be the one to take me home and show me the sun. i know, i know you can bring the fire, i can bring the bones. i know, i know you'll make the fire, my bones will make it grow.</div><div style="font-family:times;font-size:13px;line-height:100%;text-align:justify;color:#273a40;">Although Wishbone has never been one to cry, a tear leaves a sorrowful trail down her mahogany cheek.
<i>“Gather round, then, and let us return.”</i> For a moment, she wants to reverse her decision. Warrick still has a life he could live… Wishbone could handle the land of the Dead, especially — only — if it meant her father could return to the land of the Living. She is lying to herself with this bittersweet thought. The pull of Life is too fierce for her to ignore, even if it means sacrificing her father so that she may have it. Her passion for Life doesn’t stop the second tear from falling; the grulla’s words symbolize the death of her father, even while they put air in Wishbone’s lungs again.
Before she has time to say anything past <i>“I love you”</i> to her father, there is a feeling of being jerked. It’s a sharp tug at every cell of her bruised and bloodied body. Warrick’s familiar face is fading like the memory of a dream in the late afternoon. The rocks surrounding Wishbone and the others begin to darken with the shadow of a thick mist. At first, the mist looks like early morning fog and the mahogany remembers a time when Tephra had been covered in a similar haze. But the mist grows in strength and density quickly, becoming the sight of an angry thunderstorm hovering over a deep ocean. The weight of the air is heavy on Wishbone’s skin and it clings to her tangled, dark locks.
When she blinks, there is thick, uncomfortable stillness.
Wishbone’s amber eyes open upon a scene so sunny that she immediately closes them again. Even with her eyelids sealed shut, the brilliance of the sun brings an ethereal brightness to her darkness. A heat unlike anything she has felt before suddenly plunges into her like the edge of a sword. While she can remember Tephra being humid in the summertime, this warmth is dry and piercing. It soaks up every inch of moisture that might have remained on her curves, yet it also brings perspiration to the surface of her skin. After a moment of standing in the sweltering heat, Wishbone brings herself to crack her eyes open into a squint.
<b>“Where the hell am I?”</b>
If she has returned to the land of the Living, this is not the Beqanna that Wishbone knows. A thorn of dread jabs in her stomach at the sight of sand so copious that it rises and falls as far as she can see. The sky is a striking blue and without a cloud to provide relief from the sun’s anger. While Wishbone has experienced several different climates as her home — Tephra’s volcanic tropics, Ischia’s serene summertime, Nerine’s bitter winters — she’s never been to a desert before.
Her first step proves this point, where the fickle nature of the sand causes her foot to slip out from under her in a way Wishbone hadn’t expected. Pain still blossoms from relieving her death and falling off the waterfall’s edge (deep bruising expands down the length of her back, her throat feels as though Ivar had shredded it doubly, every inch of her is sore and uneasy) and the sand’s mischief brings a small cry to her mouth at the twist of her leg. Wishbone scrambles to catch her balance, looking much like a fawn running across an icy pond for the first time, and ends up sliding down the face of a dune.
When her descent is finally stopped by the shoulder of a rocky outcropping, Wishbone begins to seriously contemplate why she is here. Her mouth is dry and now coated in sand, while multicolored grains cling to the sweat-stained curves of her body. When she stands the second time, the mahogany finds that if she treats the ground like ice, it is easier to maneuver. Wishbone might look a little silly with her legs spread wide like a polar bear gliding across a glacier, but she can keep her balance and even take a few steps along the foothill of the dune.
As she rounds the bend of the dune, the sight of an oasis in the distance shimmers like a perfect summer dream. The scent of water is thin, but it doesn’t fail to remind Wishbone of her urgent thirst. For a moment, her heart quickens as memories plague her mind (of saltwater rushing into her lungs and the weight of a kelpie on her back). Instinct can be stronger than fear and for this situation, instinct allows Wishbone to follow the path of survival.
With the polar bear technique mastered, the mahogany can cover a decent amount of distance in a short amount of time. Wishbone is thankful when the image of the oasis seems to draw nearer. The heat of the sun seems to gravitate toward the darker parts of her body — she can feel the sting of a sunburn on her sable nose and the weight of searing warmth on her dark tresses. The desert saps the moisture out of her body, even as sweat drips from her brow and lathers against her chest.
The scent of water and tropics is overpowering when the mottled brown vulture suddenly drops from the sky. It had been following Wishbone for the majority of her walking, wheeling in endless circles while keeping its beady yellow eye on the mare below it. While she hadn’t particularly loved the sight of the bird, she hadn’t minded the company either. Unknown to her, the scent of Wishbone’s blood must have called it, and while the bleeding has stopped, the scent of the clotted blood still hangs in the air around her. The sudden rustling of feathers catches Wishbone’s attention and she twists her head skyward, where the dirty underbelly of the vulture looms close.
<b>“Damn it!”</b> She has just enough time to shout the profanity before the bird is using both talon and beak to attack her head. The pecks are like shards of glass splintering across her skin, leaving a dull ache in the wake of sharp pain. A sharp claw gashes at her left cheekbone and a piercing pain flares as hot as the desert sun. The movement of the vulture’s wings guides the claw upward, cutting across the expanse of her mahogany skin. Wishbone tosses her head violently against the bird and she barely evades the promise of a talon to her amber eye. The injury ends above her brow; blood immediately gushes down her face and into her left eye, coating one half of the world in maroon.
The bird has moved away from her head and toward her hips, perhaps aiming to land upon her back and snack on the powerful muscles of her back. Wishbone gives a fierce buck, one that sends her and the vulture off-balance. While the mahogany mare falls into the sand, the predator gives a moment of thought to its meal before it takes off, flying away into the clear blue sky. <b>“Damn right, you fly away.”</b> The words feel good on her mouth (an expression of the pent-up anger, frustration, and bewildering confusion she has felt throughout the day) even as her head swims with pain and fatigue.
The last few steps to the oasis are weary and winding. The skin on the left side of her face is angry and inflamed, a deep red track of blood and matter that becomes even more uncomfortable in the heat of the desert. It would be easy to splash into the water of the oasis and rinse away the sand, blood, and ache of her day. Yet something stops her. Wishbone can’t quite describe it as anything more than the feeling that to step in the water would be a betrayal. To whom, she isn’t sure. But she stops just shy of the quiet shoreline, letting out a heavy sigh as exhaustion creeps on the fringes of her mind.</div></div><center><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></center></center></div>
Wishbone is loyal to Nerine. She encounters difficulty walking in the sand, mild sunburn, and an attack from a vulture that cuts her face.
<i>“Gather round, then, and let us return.”</i> For a moment, she wants to reverse her decision. Warrick still has a life he could live… Wishbone could handle the land of the Dead, especially — only — if it meant her father could return to the land of the Living. She is lying to herself with this bittersweet thought. The pull of Life is too fierce for her to ignore, even if it means sacrificing her father so that she may have it. Her passion for Life doesn’t stop the second tear from falling; the grulla’s words symbolize the death of her father, even while they put air in Wishbone’s lungs again.
Before she has time to say anything past <i>“I love you”</i> to her father, there is a feeling of being jerked. It’s a sharp tug at every cell of her bruised and bloodied body. Warrick’s familiar face is fading like the memory of a dream in the late afternoon. The rocks surrounding Wishbone and the others begin to darken with the shadow of a thick mist. At first, the mist looks like early morning fog and the mahogany remembers a time when Tephra had been covered in a similar haze. But the mist grows in strength and density quickly, becoming the sight of an angry thunderstorm hovering over a deep ocean. The weight of the air is heavy on Wishbone’s skin and it clings to her tangled, dark locks.
When she blinks, there is thick, uncomfortable stillness.
Wishbone’s amber eyes open upon a scene so sunny that she immediately closes them again. Even with her eyelids sealed shut, the brilliance of the sun brings an ethereal brightness to her darkness. A heat unlike anything she has felt before suddenly plunges into her like the edge of a sword. While she can remember Tephra being humid in the summertime, this warmth is dry and piercing. It soaks up every inch of moisture that might have remained on her curves, yet it also brings perspiration to the surface of her skin. After a moment of standing in the sweltering heat, Wishbone brings herself to crack her eyes open into a squint.
<b>“Where the hell am I?”</b>
If she has returned to the land of the Living, this is not the Beqanna that Wishbone knows. A thorn of dread jabs in her stomach at the sight of sand so copious that it rises and falls as far as she can see. The sky is a striking blue and without a cloud to provide relief from the sun’s anger. While Wishbone has experienced several different climates as her home — Tephra’s volcanic tropics, Ischia’s serene summertime, Nerine’s bitter winters — she’s never been to a desert before.
Her first step proves this point, where the fickle nature of the sand causes her foot to slip out from under her in a way Wishbone hadn’t expected. Pain still blossoms from relieving her death and falling off the waterfall’s edge (deep bruising expands down the length of her back, her throat feels as though Ivar had shredded it doubly, every inch of her is sore and uneasy) and the sand’s mischief brings a small cry to her mouth at the twist of her leg. Wishbone scrambles to catch her balance, looking much like a fawn running across an icy pond for the first time, and ends up sliding down the face of a dune.
When her descent is finally stopped by the shoulder of a rocky outcropping, Wishbone begins to seriously contemplate why she is here. Her mouth is dry and now coated in sand, while multicolored grains cling to the sweat-stained curves of her body. When she stands the second time, the mahogany finds that if she treats the ground like ice, it is easier to maneuver. Wishbone might look a little silly with her legs spread wide like a polar bear gliding across a glacier, but she can keep her balance and even take a few steps along the foothill of the dune.
As she rounds the bend of the dune, the sight of an oasis in the distance shimmers like a perfect summer dream. The scent of water is thin, but it doesn’t fail to remind Wishbone of her urgent thirst. For a moment, her heart quickens as memories plague her mind (of saltwater rushing into her lungs and the weight of a kelpie on her back). Instinct can be stronger than fear and for this situation, instinct allows Wishbone to follow the path of survival.
With the polar bear technique mastered, the mahogany can cover a decent amount of distance in a short amount of time. Wishbone is thankful when the image of the oasis seems to draw nearer. The heat of the sun seems to gravitate toward the darker parts of her body — she can feel the sting of a sunburn on her sable nose and the weight of searing warmth on her dark tresses. The desert saps the moisture out of her body, even as sweat drips from her brow and lathers against her chest.
The scent of water and tropics is overpowering when the mottled brown vulture suddenly drops from the sky. It had been following Wishbone for the majority of her walking, wheeling in endless circles while keeping its beady yellow eye on the mare below it. While she hadn’t particularly loved the sight of the bird, she hadn’t minded the company either. Unknown to her, the scent of Wishbone’s blood must have called it, and while the bleeding has stopped, the scent of the clotted blood still hangs in the air around her. The sudden rustling of feathers catches Wishbone’s attention and she twists her head skyward, where the dirty underbelly of the vulture looms close.
<b>“Damn it!”</b> She has just enough time to shout the profanity before the bird is using both talon and beak to attack her head. The pecks are like shards of glass splintering across her skin, leaving a dull ache in the wake of sharp pain. A sharp claw gashes at her left cheekbone and a piercing pain flares as hot as the desert sun. The movement of the vulture’s wings guides the claw upward, cutting across the expanse of her mahogany skin. Wishbone tosses her head violently against the bird and she barely evades the promise of a talon to her amber eye. The injury ends above her brow; blood immediately gushes down her face and into her left eye, coating one half of the world in maroon.
The bird has moved away from her head and toward her hips, perhaps aiming to land upon her back and snack on the powerful muscles of her back. Wishbone gives a fierce buck, one that sends her and the vulture off-balance. While the mahogany mare falls into the sand, the predator gives a moment of thought to its meal before it takes off, flying away into the clear blue sky. <b>“Damn right, you fly away.”</b> The words feel good on her mouth (an expression of the pent-up anger, frustration, and bewildering confusion she has felt throughout the day) even as her head swims with pain and fatigue.
The last few steps to the oasis are weary and winding. The skin on the left side of her face is angry and inflamed, a deep red track of blood and matter that becomes even more uncomfortable in the heat of the desert. It would be easy to splash into the water of the oasis and rinse away the sand, blood, and ache of her day. Yet something stops her. Wishbone can’t quite describe it as anything more than the feeling that to step in the water would be a betrayal. To whom, she isn’t sure. But she stops just shy of the quiet shoreline, letting out a heavy sigh as exhaustion creeps on the fringes of her mind.</div></div><center><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></center></center></div>
Wishbone is loyal to Nerine. She encounters difficulty walking in the sand, mild sunburn, and an attack from a vulture that cuts her face.