03-02-2019, 06:50 PM
Somehow, she had made the right decision.
Naia does not think she has particularly good luck, but signs were beginning to point her toward a kind universe or a vigilant guardian angel. If she is to be honest with herself (and she is beginning to do so), she will find that her life has dealt her Iittle joys to make up for the hardships. A father absent of hardly any fault of his own, a family she barely knows, a loneliness that pervades most moments - all inconsequential to the quests of rescue and care she sets herself upon.
Perhaps, and she thinks this very hesitantly, she possesses qualities that redeem her depressiveness - that will not be muted by mental illness.
The sand storm comes quick - sudden - whipping those that were allured by the strange structures into a vicious whirlwind. Just as quickly as they are taken, they disappear, and the monster is screeching its way toward the struggling few that remain. Luckily, Naia finds that her wound is hardly more than surface, and she can hobble quickly to the shoreline for three seashells the fairy asked for. Panic wants so desperately to flood her brain but the logic the budding woman is so fond of comes first. All calamity comes second to her quickly passing thoughts: spot the shell, place in mouth, repeat twice over and then off into the ocean before the sand takes her.
Without thinking, the appaloosa wraps her lips around a smooth, white-spotted piece. Oval in shape, bark brown, and lined with ridges upon its opening, it fits neatly tucked into the side of her mouth. The next is but a few inches from the first, each side spread wide like a butterfly’s wings - each side painted like a picturesque sunset. Like the one before, she hastily scoops it into the side of her mouth, maneuvering her tongue just so that the shell rests between her gums and her teeth.
The sandstorm is closing in now: howling like the enraged werewolf it is, whipping dirt the teeth nipping at her heels.
Naia rushes into the water without looking back, afraid the sight of the monstrosity breathing down her neck will cause her to falter. Fear poisons little corners of her brain: blurring the edges of her vision, setting a faster pace to her beating heart, balling faintly nauseous spit in the back of her throat. She thinks she will fail - bring back the only two she could find in the hopes it will be enough for the fairies.
But she cannot bear the failure; nor has her warrior’s heart ever truly taken to defeat, even in her darkest moments.
With a calming breathe, Naia plunges her head underwater and presses her maw to the shifting ground. Her eyes open wide for a moment - just a measly second long enough against the salt - to spot her last accessory. A creamy, smooth spiral: somehow so delicate and yet held intact despite the cruel nature of the sea. Upon her tongue it rests; Naia taking careful time to lift her head from the water without disturbing her precious cargo. Behind her the storm is furious (she thinks it cries for her; perhaps a sandy werewolf truly does take form).
No matter: the woman finds a new strength today -
She does not have to look back.
Through the channel she travels, kicking up sand upon the shore, passing the Tephra volcano. Her trip is quick, thoughts no other need know (thoughts of redemption, of hope). Perhaps there is a new sway to her hips as she steps into the clearing of the fairies.
Humbled in her newfound womanhood and in awe of the wisdom these fairies demand, Naia dips her head respectfully and drops her offerings on the ground.
shell 1: measled cowrie
shell 2: sunrise tellin
shell 3: common spirula
Naia does not think she has particularly good luck, but signs were beginning to point her toward a kind universe or a vigilant guardian angel. If she is to be honest with herself (and she is beginning to do so), she will find that her life has dealt her Iittle joys to make up for the hardships. A father absent of hardly any fault of his own, a family she barely knows, a loneliness that pervades most moments - all inconsequential to the quests of rescue and care she sets herself upon.
Perhaps, and she thinks this very hesitantly, she possesses qualities that redeem her depressiveness - that will not be muted by mental illness.
The sand storm comes quick - sudden - whipping those that were allured by the strange structures into a vicious whirlwind. Just as quickly as they are taken, they disappear, and the monster is screeching its way toward the struggling few that remain. Luckily, Naia finds that her wound is hardly more than surface, and she can hobble quickly to the shoreline for three seashells the fairy asked for. Panic wants so desperately to flood her brain but the logic the budding woman is so fond of comes first. All calamity comes second to her quickly passing thoughts: spot the shell, place in mouth, repeat twice over and then off into the ocean before the sand takes her.
Without thinking, the appaloosa wraps her lips around a smooth, white-spotted piece. Oval in shape, bark brown, and lined with ridges upon its opening, it fits neatly tucked into the side of her mouth. The next is but a few inches from the first, each side spread wide like a butterfly’s wings - each side painted like a picturesque sunset. Like the one before, she hastily scoops it into the side of her mouth, maneuvering her tongue just so that the shell rests between her gums and her teeth.
The sandstorm is closing in now: howling like the enraged werewolf it is, whipping dirt the teeth nipping at her heels.
Naia rushes into the water without looking back, afraid the sight of the monstrosity breathing down her neck will cause her to falter. Fear poisons little corners of her brain: blurring the edges of her vision, setting a faster pace to her beating heart, balling faintly nauseous spit in the back of her throat. She thinks she will fail - bring back the only two she could find in the hopes it will be enough for the fairies.
But she cannot bear the failure; nor has her warrior’s heart ever truly taken to defeat, even in her darkest moments.
With a calming breathe, Naia plunges her head underwater and presses her maw to the shifting ground. Her eyes open wide for a moment - just a measly second long enough against the salt - to spot her last accessory. A creamy, smooth spiral: somehow so delicate and yet held intact despite the cruel nature of the sea. Upon her tongue it rests; Naia taking careful time to lift her head from the water without disturbing her precious cargo. Behind her the storm is furious (she thinks it cries for her; perhaps a sandy werewolf truly does take form).
No matter: the woman finds a new strength today -
She does not have to look back.
Through the channel she travels, kicking up sand upon the shore, passing the Tephra volcano. Her trip is quick, thoughts no other need know (thoughts of redemption, of hope). Perhaps there is a new sway to her hips as she steps into the clearing of the fairies.
Humbled in her newfound womanhood and in awe of the wisdom these fairies demand, Naia dips her head respectfully and drops her offerings on the ground.
shell 1: measled cowrie
shell 2: sunrise tellin
shell 3: common spirula