Huh?
There is something strange when you wake up with black feathers strewn, knotted into your mane. Even more so when you could not find the source -- no feathers, no bird. But ever since I was born, I could not understand some things. My mind goes blank, I would not remember the sun rising, yet would wander until the sun sets. My silver black hide brushing through the undergrowth of the woodland surrounding the Gates. Again, I was uncertain how I got there, my mind taking trips. I had been happily frolicking around with mother, enjoying listening to the singsong of the larks, when everything went dark, black almost. As if I had been thrown into an abyss, only to resurface and find myself venturing through the underbrush, my chocolate pelt marked with scratches from jagged tree branches and trunks with their spindly fingers outstretching at me, looming over me like ominous monsters. The dark woods were something of terrible tales, ones where monsters lurk and the demons hide. So my mother tells me. My amber eyes wander the perimeter, the sun was blessing the meadow with a golden twilight, it's gilded aura welcoming, if not concerning me. I was unsure where my mother was and the last I had seen of her, she was murmuring things to herself, cursing something, someone even. Strange. Everything about this new world was so very strange...
Then I see it, in the distance a crow, it's wings expanding and flapping. I stand silent, watching him easily, golden eyes following the bird as he bobs along the tree branch until he swoops down and picks up a twig before taking flight again. There is something sinister about the black birds, but something welcoming, comforting. And somehow I believe that those birds and perhaps even my own mother, has something to do with the black feathers woven into my downy mane. Each hoof takes a turn in moving, shifting through the tall grasses, sidling through them and tossing my head. Eyes surveying, trying to place where I was last, and then I spy the rushing water of the river, the reflective surface golden, purple beneath the setting sun's rays. I trot over, leaping a few fallen logs and springing around a few trunks until I was out of the underbrush and into the realm of the known. Well, at least out into the open and out of the shadows. I lift my muzzle to the reaches of the kaleidoscope sky, and call, softly, for anyone, for everything, or nothing. I did not know.
Kernick;
what doesn't kill you makes you wish you were dead
khaos x reuen |
