SIRIN
Freedom tastes like the first touch of fall scenting the air with its pleasant decay. She breathes it in deeply, hungrily, and smiles. The world is spread out before her in dips and rises like an easy lover ready for the taking. Even in the beginning of death (the crisping, crunching leaves and the sway of the brown tallgrasses) it is appealing in a way that her life before had not been. Nothing had ever satisfied her. But this, the freedom to go where she chooses and surround herself with whatever company she wants? This is as good a start as any.
She moves languid and cat-like between the trees. Her pale legs and underbelly are stark and bright, even in the depths of the forest. It is not her final destination – not that she knows where that will be – but she walks slowly enough to take it all in anyway. She is careful as she goes. Careful not to scrape her soft violet sides on the rough bark she passes. Careful not to let the wild red berries stain her wings as she tucks them in and steps gingerly around the bushes.
The delicate mare hears the sound of water in the distance and changes direction to find the source. When she emerges from under the treeline, the view opens up before her. It is a river, great and swirling as it cuts through the land. On the other side, the trees are sparse as the meadows stretch bare and browned by the season. She stands atop a steep bank and looks down into the waters’ depths, deciding on her next move.
Precedence would have suggested the field as a first stop. But she is not cut from the same mindless mold as those that would venture there. Out here, real lives play out without pretense, without expectation. Wind rich with the last breaths of heat tosses her straw-pale mane against her neck. As she watches the eddies of dark water stir beneath her, Sirin wonders who will move her.
fire in my bloodstream, water in my lungs
@[Calcifer] or any: this is a pile of steaming garbage. next will be better, promise!