<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Amatic+SC" rel="stylesheet"><div align="center"><div style="border-left:#273a40 3px solid;border-right:#273a40 3px solid;background:#99a3a4;padding:16px 16px 12px 16px;width:500px;"><img src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a4/05/47/a40547754bbee4421bf6eea84ca20509.jpg" style="max-width:100%;border:1px solid #000;"><div style="width:500px;line-height:24px;font-family:amatic sc;font-size:50px;margin-left:-4px;text-shadow:#000 2px 0px 2px;color:#273a40;letter-spacing:1px;text-transform:lowercase;text-align:center;">take my soul & make it undone</div><div style="width:450px;padding:12px 4px 12px 4px;font-family:arial;text-transform:uppercase;font-size:9px;line-height:8px;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:center;color:#33454f;">be the one, be the one to take me home and show me the sun. i know, i know you can bring the fire, i can bring the bones. i know, i know you'll make the fire, my bones will make it grow.</div><div style="font-family:times;font-size:13px;line-height:100%;text-align:justify;color:#273a40;">Unlike some of the greats, she has only died once.
Wishbone will admit her murder was embarrassing… It could barely even be called a murder. Nothing screams “I love kinky sex” more than getting drowned by a possessive kelpie mid-bone. She can’t even consider the event to be a pleasant one, with or without the drowning part. She had still been debilitated from the potent combination of the Plague and the birth of twins. At the time, her weakness had resulted in Ivar getting what he wanted. Wishbone wasn’t built for the life of a broodmare, yet that is exactly what those final weeks of her life had become.
She <i>burns</i> with anger at the thought of it now.
He had started with showers of kisses along her spine that were equally frustrating and encouraging. <i>“The children are off to play.”</i> His voice had been a husky growl of desire in her ear. Later she would scoff and huff in the land of the Dead, furious that he had said ‘the children’ as if he didn’t know their names.
Rivuline and Delphi — the sight of their soft baby faces played through her mind like a scratched, repeating record.
While sparing the details that put her in the position of her demise, Wishbone found herself first knee-deep in the western ocean. It wasn’t a cause for concern because she had trusted him. He surely wouldn’t let her drown (not like all the other mares he had sacrificed to the sea). Besides, her Tephran childhood home and Nerinian homeland had gifted her the skill of swimming despite any fins or gills. Even as the waves rose to her chest, Wishbone had no worry.
It wasn’t until the sea was soaking her throat and then her cheeks that she realized she was in danger. And Ivar was a tyrant against her back, placing bite marks along her crest that thinly bled into the waves. His weight was upon her like the entirety of the sky was pressing her down below the surface and into the sand. Her voice would not have reached his ears, even if she had said anything. He was instinct — the primal creature he had always been. When a low gasp brought her final quick inhale of air, Ivar might not have even noticed.
Wishbone can’t forget the way the ocean rushed into her lungs. In those long nights among the Dead, she often woke in a sweat with the sensation still heavy in her chest.
She is thankful she didn’t have to experience what took place once her body washed against Ischia’s shore. When the mahogany had woken beyond the veil, something had felt removed. She had not been whole… Not simply because her daughters were alive while she was dead, but because a physical piece of her had been tortured along with her waterlogged lungs. A hazy, dancing reflection among the Dead revealed the absence of her jugular, torn clean from her throat by the teeth of her murderer.
Her Death years have been spent in bitterness. The line between Life and Death is a worn path she paces daily. She is <i>so ready</i> to get out of this nursing home. She is a captive against her will. She is a tigress trapped in a cage. Her anger is a fire in the dryest forest, engulfing anything that dares get in her way. Wishbone knows she will never allow herself to submit to the life of a broodmare again. The temptations of Ivar are weak against the iron-will of her determination. One day, she <i>will</i> get home to Nerine.
When she feels the line crack, she is already there.</div></div></div><center><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></center>
Wishbone will admit her murder was embarrassing… It could barely even be called a murder. Nothing screams “I love kinky sex” more than getting drowned by a possessive kelpie mid-bone. She can’t even consider the event to be a pleasant one, with or without the drowning part. She had still been debilitated from the potent combination of the Plague and the birth of twins. At the time, her weakness had resulted in Ivar getting what he wanted. Wishbone wasn’t built for the life of a broodmare, yet that is exactly what those final weeks of her life had become.
She <i>burns</i> with anger at the thought of it now.
He had started with showers of kisses along her spine that were equally frustrating and encouraging. <i>“The children are off to play.”</i> His voice had been a husky growl of desire in her ear. Later she would scoff and huff in the land of the Dead, furious that he had said ‘the children’ as if he didn’t know their names.
Rivuline and Delphi — the sight of their soft baby faces played through her mind like a scratched, repeating record.
While sparing the details that put her in the position of her demise, Wishbone found herself first knee-deep in the western ocean. It wasn’t a cause for concern because she had trusted him. He surely wouldn’t let her drown (not like all the other mares he had sacrificed to the sea). Besides, her Tephran childhood home and Nerinian homeland had gifted her the skill of swimming despite any fins or gills. Even as the waves rose to her chest, Wishbone had no worry.
It wasn’t until the sea was soaking her throat and then her cheeks that she realized she was in danger. And Ivar was a tyrant against her back, placing bite marks along her crest that thinly bled into the waves. His weight was upon her like the entirety of the sky was pressing her down below the surface and into the sand. Her voice would not have reached his ears, even if she had said anything. He was instinct — the primal creature he had always been. When a low gasp brought her final quick inhale of air, Ivar might not have even noticed.
Wishbone can’t forget the way the ocean rushed into her lungs. In those long nights among the Dead, she often woke in a sweat with the sensation still heavy in her chest.
She is thankful she didn’t have to experience what took place once her body washed against Ischia’s shore. When the mahogany had woken beyond the veil, something had felt removed. She had not been whole… Not simply because her daughters were alive while she was dead, but because a physical piece of her had been tortured along with her waterlogged lungs. A hazy, dancing reflection among the Dead revealed the absence of her jugular, torn clean from her throat by the teeth of her murderer.
Her Death years have been spent in bitterness. The line between Life and Death is a worn path she paces daily. She is <i>so ready</i> to get out of this nursing home. She is a captive against her will. She is a tigress trapped in a cage. Her anger is a fire in the dryest forest, engulfing anything that dares get in her way. Wishbone knows she will never allow herself to submit to the life of a broodmare again. The temptations of Ivar are weak against the iron-will of her determination. One day, she <i>will</i> get home to Nerine.
When she feels the line crack, she is already there.</div></div></div><center><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></center>