07-20-2018, 08:22 PM
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T he days have blurred together. After the visit from the once-king, the concept of time was swept away under a long-forgotten rug and Wound’s hope went with it. Early fall melted into winter which bled into spring. Her sides continued to swell beneath the weight of Modicum Mortem’s seed. Her pregnancy with Wishbone had been a joyful one, albeit stressful under the endless thoughts over Warrick’s reaction, yet this one is entirely different. The gray of her soul (normally full of color and sound) allows only enough delight for Wound to become immensely protective of her stomach amid the visits of the Sylvans.These outbursts of independent ferocity are the only signs of energy from the petite silver mare. She dreams of Tephra frequently. They are hazy, fear-induced dreams that often turn nightmarish in the end. Warrick’s auburn face cloaked in the glow of the volcano suddenly twists into the shape of a wave of water coming to fill her lungs and drown her heart. The soft lull of the beach waves dancing across her heels washes into the snarl of a wolf’s throat about to shred teeth into her womb. Although Wound sleeps fitfully, her moments of wakefulness are spent in eerie, symbolic silence. She is broken. Her shoulder leans against the bitter wall of the cavern one spring afternoon. The light that filters slowly into her prison is welcoming and warm, but no ray of sun reaches the far corner she has been confined to. Dust motes dance in the glow of sunshine, happy and content to float weightlessly. A ragged sigh slips from Wound’s throat as she shifts her position with the movement of an uncomfortable kick to her ribs. The sound echos in the silence of the cavern, although the walls of her jail-cell have frequently heard her screams of pain and terror on other days. |
credit to nat of adoxography.