she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
Wishbone resists the urge to laugh at the surprised expression that flutters across the pale mare’s face at her question. She manages to control it to a shockingly-beautiful smirk of amusement, one that pulls attention to the flare of life in her amber eyes and the subtley reckless curve of her dark mouth. Although she’s never truly been one to attempt to control her own desires (as moonlight-lustful or thundercloud-wild as they might be), she knows enough to rein herself in when it’s needed.
Perhaps a laugh would have scared off this ghost-mare.
Perhaps a laugh would have coaxed her nearer.
Regardless of how Sakara might feel about the shadowy haze of amusement flickering across Wishbone’s face, she is moving forward with tender legs. The mahogany mare doesn’t wonder if the marrow of her bones might splinter and fall apart for the simple reason that she must have walked here somehow. It’s likely she could have wings hidden in the air surrounding them, translucent and only pulled from their glass jar when the time is necessary (and this is a gift that some of Beqanna have, as silly as it might sound), but Wishbone’s expression remains unworried by the fragility of the pale mare nevertheless.
“Wishbone is who’s asking, lovely.” Her voice is honey-whiskey — a chaotic mixture of huskiness from her days spent among Tephra’s volcano-smog and a sweet femininity that somehow smooths over the roughness that precedes it — but there’s a hint of something smokier (something that pulls together memories of blood-tinged waves and the moon’s glow illuminating the sheen of sweat on a kelpie tobiano) in the way she gives both her name and says the word “lovely.” Despite these subtle hints, Wishbone’s eyes easily mirror the ghost-mare’s, finding the lonesome faces of strangers amidst the Field.
The swell and dips of the clearing can certainly seem depressing, if someone were to look at it that way. Haunted eyes gaze out from the shadows, perhaps fearing the approach of a rough-and-tough stallion or perhaps wondering why they had come in the first place. Children tousle among themselves under the careful watch of nervous mothers, yet offspring and parent alike have no true, protected place to call home.
Wishbone sees them all as opportunities — dozens of opportunities.
Her eyes meet the shadowed gaze of a tall colt, hazy in appearance, before her lithe head moves back around to catch Sakara’s introduction. “Sakara.” The word is a whisper in her mouth and it sounds like a sweet little secret between the pair of them. “Do you know anything of Beqanna, Sakara?” Her sunset eyes are unwaveringly on the skinny face of the pale mare again, yet a hint of a smile dances on her dark lips.
wishbone
@[Sakara] / @[Rajanish]