wolves in our own skin, we're savages.
She follows the will of the trees far, far away from her grassy meadowland. The ground underfoot changes from loamy dirt to compacted, dry and pebbly. She wonders how any life at all would be able to survive if it continues to change. The trees say onward however and she follows, dutifully. It is not her place to question; only to do, or do not. Her knowledge is so tiny compared to the vastness of the universe and nature; she is its humble servant, a mere apothecary to the great Goddess.
The heat rises, and the plants she is familiar with changes, too. Now they are spiky, narrow-leaved, closed away from the heat and sun. She has no name for these. The trees voices begin to fade away too, into this veritable wasteland of a place. The voices she can hear are not the same, either, they speak in a strange exotic language that Dá finds she understands perfectly. It seems they do not care for the politeness and mystery of the Meadow trees; instead being rather short and to the point. Different, but Dá has no preference for either over the other.
She stops, unaware of how far she has actually trekked. There are no voices now, it is blessedly quiet (although lonely). She could be in the center of the kingdom, for all she knows. She knows little, but she is thirsty. Always thirsty for more. Her parchment-yellow eyes gaze across the eternal dunes, an unusual pinky hue, although the witch wouldn't know that. She has never seen a desert before. The wildfire girl burns steadily; neutrally. She is at peace, but she is open - open to be read, interpreted, discovered. Not out of politeness, the wild girl has no concept of such thing, but out of curiosity.
Come, o great desert creatures, come and meet the sun.
DÁ
The heat rises, and the plants she is familiar with changes, too. Now they are spiky, narrow-leaved, closed away from the heat and sun. She has no name for these. The trees voices begin to fade away too, into this veritable wasteland of a place. The voices she can hear are not the same, either, they speak in a strange exotic language that Dá finds she understands perfectly. It seems they do not care for the politeness and mystery of the Meadow trees; instead being rather short and to the point. Different, but Dá has no preference for either over the other.
She stops, unaware of how far she has actually trekked. There are no voices now, it is blessedly quiet (although lonely). She could be in the center of the kingdom, for all she knows. She knows little, but she is thirsty. Always thirsty for more. Her parchment-yellow eyes gaze across the eternal dunes, an unusual pinky hue, although the witch wouldn't know that. She has never seen a desert before. The wildfire girl burns steadily; neutrally. She is at peace, but she is open - open to be read, interpreted, discovered. Not out of politeness, the wild girl has no concept of such thing, but out of curiosity.
Come, o great desert creatures, come and meet the sun.