she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
As memories cloud the mind of the ghost-mare, they also cloud the mind of Wishbone.
The tall grass brushes against her young sides, emerald blades kissing the sweetness of her shoulders. Her mother is trailing behind, explaining why she needs to be on her best behavior (“We’re here to meet someone new and maybe see if they want to live in Tephra with us”) as they wander into the midst of the Field. Excitement dances in the low of her belly, tangling with the knots of her child-mane and tugging at the corners of her dark lips.
Although her mother had begun to lose hope, the girl found Siona quickly and immediately bombarded the fox-girl with questions. “... How did you get your tail? And what about your paws?” One could say the same about the mahogany girl’s bruised knees and her drive for adventure (though some would call it mischief).
She has gone on many diplomatic trips with her mother — to Loess (where the child-queen once ruled) and to Hyaline (before her sister-in-law kissed the sweet face of Solace) and to the Field (as a child with Wound and then as a woman for her own kingdom) — and while they might’ve been to settle the wild traveling bug that never left the reckless girl, they had also been to raise her up in the atmosphere of Beqanna’s politics.
Wishbone is grateful for those experiences now, as she wades among spring grasses and nervous youngsters who had wandered too far from their equally-as-nervous mothers. With an easy (one could almost call it mothering, but such a look on her dark lips has been rarely — if ever — seen) smile, the mahogany woman nudges the anxious, newborn-legged filly in the direction of her searching mother. “She’s just over there.” Although her voice is husky and rough, there’s a warm gentleness in it.
When she raises her head from the height of the young girl, Wishbone’s amber gaze catches on a pale mare shrouded in the shade just outside the activity of the Field. Her own mother had spent her fair share in the shadowy corners of Beqanna, living in the protection of her hawk-eyed brothers. This thought brings another smile to her dark lips, tinted with shades of nostalgia. Wishbone reminds herself to visit Wound in Tephra sometime, when the responsibilities of being Khaleesi are not drowning her.
The mahogany mare approaches at a smooth walk, toned muscle shifting easily along her lithe frame. The patchwork of scars across her knees have faded since her childhood (back when summiting Tephra’s volcano had been her life’s goal and jumping the lava-streams had occasionally ended in painful, blistering burns) but deep gray reminders still etch themselves into the darkness of her legs.
“You’re not from here.” The unique scents of Other Places dance on the pale mare’s skin like a flag waving high in the air with the words “I’m new” printed across it. Wishbone’s eyes are intense as she scans the other’s gaunt face. There’s potential in her pale face and along the poke of her ribcage through her skin — potential to become a Leviathan, potential to become something great, potential to be brave and strong and fierce. “Do you want to be here?”
wishbone
@[Sakara] / sorry this is so long, wishbone is a butt and wanted me to just keep writing