04-13-2018, 08:13 PM
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S he finds them on the shore, ragged and tossed-together. Although Wound has never been to Ischia, she can identify the deeply-rooted scents that rest upon their skin from her many trips to the Field. They are slathered with the aromas of their home and fear and grief and thus the quickening of concern finds her belly.She comes to them from a thinly-weaving trail out of the jungle foliage, skin just drying from a dip in a small cove not far away. It’s a ghostly cry of her first time to Tephra’s shores (looking just as unsettled and dismantled as them) when Longclaw had appeared from the shadows as though he were a blue mirage. She is not blue, but rather drawn with colors of silvery umber, and no carefree smile dazzles her face. Instead, Wound’s face is already approaching a comforting structure. She can see suffering a mile away (she’d grown up around it, hidden in the dark corners of Beqanna with the sorrowful crying and angry gnashing of teeth) and her heart aches to soothe their hearts. It is as she gets closer that her memory is jogged and she remembers the bay appy stallion who stands beside the colorful mare. “Durotan?” They had met in a commonplace of Beqanna briefly one day not long ago, but ultimately departed ways. Still, Wound hadn’t forgotten his handsome face nor the shy filly he brought along with him. “Welcome to Tephra.” Although her voice is welcoming, it is tender with the underlying question of their presence. Turning to the green and bay mare, the silver mare introduces herself. “I’m Wound. How can I help all of you?” |
credit to nat of adoxography.
@[Durotan] @[Krone] @[Warrick] (if he wants to join)