she got blood cold as ice
and a heart made of stone
Leokadia is today partway covered in mud, half dipped really, since she had lay down in a sucking sludgy hole in during the heat of the midday. There is a dried stain of red-brown clay over much of her body with an almost neat line between the caked and cracked earth and the remainder of her dirty but still cremello pelt and feathers. Three-quarters of her feathers are bedraggled, unusable in their current terracotta state. The little mare only rarely carries her wings up on her back, but lets them hang haphazard or drag upon the ground.
Her imperfectly perfect memory tells her where the sweetest grazing is and she busies herself with this most mundane of tasks. Leokadia minds her own business like so many others who graze on this creek-fed meadow, but she can’t turn her brain off, can’t make it stop recording the snippets of conversation she overhears or the exact color, shape, and scent of a wildflower growing near her feet. She will remember this day perfectly as she does every single day almost since birth.
That thought, or more the awareness that she is creating yet another unremarkable recording makes Leokadia lift her head. Whilst chewing her last mouthful she cast her too-pale eyes out over the meadow. Her expression is bland, empty of emotion; a blank canvas waiting to be filled with propaganda. Who will she get to, need to be today, and what will she learn as a result?
It’s unlikely she’ll meet someone she knows, so the experience will be a fresh one. When you can remember someone perfectly they often become perfectly boring (worse still if they were boring in the first place). Not everyone gets boring mind, some burn bright in her recollections but whoever she draws in or chooses to approach today will have to prove interesting in one way or another. Leokadia has a very unique idea of interesting.
but she keeps me alive
she's the beast in my bones
Leokadia