<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;">The longing of her thirst is just as powerful as the pull of the oasis. And yet, Wishbone’s first step into the crystalline blue water is hesitant. Memories begin to take shape, first slowly and then with increasing speed. <i>The ocean reaches her chest and soon her throat, heavy summertime waves that rise to greedily swallow what air remains in her lungs.</i> A quick but full inhale of sweltering desert air fills her lungs. <i>She can hear the lusty sounds of Ivar’s breaths above her shoulders and jealously fills her amidst the fear — her breaths are silenced below the ocean’s surface, swollen with seawater.</i> For a moment, Wishbone can only hear the rushing sound of blood in her ears alongside the pounding of her heart. The oasis has faded into Ischia’s warm ocean and she feels waterlogged, even while she stands dry on the sandy shore.
There is no telling what brings her back to the present. Perhaps it is the throbbing pain of her cheek, or the feeling of grime and sweat rubbing into the crevices of her body, or the sudden realization that she is standing on dry ground, or the heat of the desert sun burning at the tender skin beneath her coat. Whatever the reason, Wishbone brings her swimming, panicked mind back to the shore of the oasis. The amber eye not soaked with blood scans the water for a few careful seconds. Her commitment is true and strong; the mahogany mare nearly sprints into the clear water. It is better to bite the bullet than tiptoe into the water, she has decided.
As she runs, a memory of playing with Svedka along Hyaline’s lake flickers at the back of her mind. A warm, pleasant feeling of nostalgia fills Wishbone as she submerges herself below the surface of the water. The coolness is a relief against the many damages that scatter her body — the burnt skin on her shoulders and nose, the claw-marking from the vulture, the slight ache from twisting her leg against the finicky sand, the deep bruising that blossoms along her back, the shredded feeling of her throat — and she revels in the way it washes away the sweat and sand.
Wishbone opens her eyes underneath the water, watching the way the sunlight hits the pale gray rocks like ribbons of gold. A few small, hardy fish flirt in the deeper parts of the oasis, winding between rock and sand like expert dancers. The palm trees above the surface cast shadows below the water, dappling Wishbone’s body in large patterns of deep russet and sun-tinted mahogany. She swims nimbly, a sign of years spent in Tephran, Nerinian, and Ischian waters. The relief the oasis brings allows her previous tension and panic to fade and then disappear until she is left with only blissful peace.
When Wishbone’s face breaks the surface to catch a breath of air, the scene has shifted. The air tastes heavy and wet. <i>“Aida!”</i> Her heart tightens at the sound of the voice, a sense of empathy felt only between two mothers seizing her. Fog darkens her vision, but the Nerinian can see the shape of a panic-stricken dark mare wandering dangerously close to the edge of a sharp cliff. Wishbone isn’t certain whether this is Nerine, with its own granite cliffs, but she knows that falling off the edge would mean death.
Before she can make a move to warn the dark mother, Wishbone blinks and the scene is changing again. Shapes and colors swirl around her as though she were in the midst of a tornado. When she arrives at this next scene, her head feels dizzy for a moment. The heat and sand are familiar, but Wishbone is not at the oasis any longer. Instead, there is a pair standing among the shifting dunes — a mare who’s coloring fits serenely into the backdrop of the sand and a stallion who’s orange eyes seem to reflect the glowing orb of the sun. The tension in the air feels just as heavy as the fading heat of the day. Wishbone watches wordlessly as the pair launch into a fight filled with emotion and bloodshed. Her heart wrenches at the sound of the mare’s ribs cracking beneath the weight of the stallion’s hooves… Hadn’t she also just suffered — <i>died</i> even — beneath a stallion? If Nikkai hadn’t reminded her of the consequences of her own death, this situation certainly would.
While the cry of the mother to her daughter had tugged at her heartstrings, this death is much more real to Wishbone.
<i>Ivar’s weight dragging her down, down, down just as the sun sinks lower, lower, lower as the palomino chokes on her blood.</i>
<i>Ivar’s teeth shredding the tissue of her throat to leave a gaping hole just as the stallion drags his hooves across his face to pull his eyes from their sockets.</i>
All of it chills her to the bone because it feels startlingly close to reality.
“Please,” she had tried to whisper to Ivar, but the ocean had dragged the air from her mouth and silenced her voice. <i>“Please,”</i> this mare whispers, but the blood is thick and choking.
Wishbone wouldn’t be able to stop the palomino from dying now, but could she prevent it from happening? As if the question were an answer of its own, a strange feeling of lightness accompanied a soft <i>whoosh</i> in her ear before the whole scene began again. The meeting of two gazes, while a third watches. She had to act quickly before the weight of hooves caused the mare’s ribcage to snap and curl into itself like a fallen baby bird.
<b>“STOP!”</b> Her voice is a warrior cry, even as she scrambles across the sand in an attempt to reach them. The old muscle of her power is shaky at first, the sand only just stirring beneath the hooves of the orange-eyed stallion. Wishbone feels her grip tighten on the ancient bones and the solidifying action allows her to move quicker than she was expecting. The ribcage of a creature — much older than any of them combined, perhaps wiped out by the flames of a meteor — loosens itself from the depths of the sand-dunes and wraps itself around the stallion like a prison cell. Rather than launching his body against the palomino’s, the stallion finds himself colliding with strong, prehistoric bone. Droplets of sweat begin to form on the mahogany mare’s brow from the effort it takes to secure the cage. Various bits of the creature fly out from the ground like flinty arrows, finding purchase against the ribcage to anchor it to the sand.
Though the stallion may thrash, there is little chance he will free himself.
Wishbone’s gaze turns to find the palomino’s own. Amber eyes meet amber eyes among fading sunlight. <b>“It’s ironic,”</b> she says huskily, <b>“that he is trapped in a ribcage when he was about to snap yours.”</b> While this in itself is ironic, the irony of the entire adventure is beginning to reach Wishbone but she manages to control the potential of a wild laugh into an amused smile instead. <b>“Who are you, anyway?”</b> A pause, her amber eyes glancing toward the stallion caught in the bone-cage. <b>“And who is he? He was about to kill you, ya know.”</b></div></div><center><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></center></div>
There is no telling what brings her back to the present. Perhaps it is the throbbing pain of her cheek, or the feeling of grime and sweat rubbing into the crevices of her body, or the sudden realization that she is standing on dry ground, or the heat of the desert sun burning at the tender skin beneath her coat. Whatever the reason, Wishbone brings her swimming, panicked mind back to the shore of the oasis. The amber eye not soaked with blood scans the water for a few careful seconds. Her commitment is true and strong; the mahogany mare nearly sprints into the clear water. It is better to bite the bullet than tiptoe into the water, she has decided.
As she runs, a memory of playing with Svedka along Hyaline’s lake flickers at the back of her mind. A warm, pleasant feeling of nostalgia fills Wishbone as she submerges herself below the surface of the water. The coolness is a relief against the many damages that scatter her body — the burnt skin on her shoulders and nose, the claw-marking from the vulture, the slight ache from twisting her leg against the finicky sand, the deep bruising that blossoms along her back, the shredded feeling of her throat — and she revels in the way it washes away the sweat and sand.
Wishbone opens her eyes underneath the water, watching the way the sunlight hits the pale gray rocks like ribbons of gold. A few small, hardy fish flirt in the deeper parts of the oasis, winding between rock and sand like expert dancers. The palm trees above the surface cast shadows below the water, dappling Wishbone’s body in large patterns of deep russet and sun-tinted mahogany. She swims nimbly, a sign of years spent in Tephran, Nerinian, and Ischian waters. The relief the oasis brings allows her previous tension and panic to fade and then disappear until she is left with only blissful peace.
When Wishbone’s face breaks the surface to catch a breath of air, the scene has shifted. The air tastes heavy and wet. <i>“Aida!”</i> Her heart tightens at the sound of the voice, a sense of empathy felt only between two mothers seizing her. Fog darkens her vision, but the Nerinian can see the shape of a panic-stricken dark mare wandering dangerously close to the edge of a sharp cliff. Wishbone isn’t certain whether this is Nerine, with its own granite cliffs, but she knows that falling off the edge would mean death.
Before she can make a move to warn the dark mother, Wishbone blinks and the scene is changing again. Shapes and colors swirl around her as though she were in the midst of a tornado. When she arrives at this next scene, her head feels dizzy for a moment. The heat and sand are familiar, but Wishbone is not at the oasis any longer. Instead, there is a pair standing among the shifting dunes — a mare who’s coloring fits serenely into the backdrop of the sand and a stallion who’s orange eyes seem to reflect the glowing orb of the sun. The tension in the air feels just as heavy as the fading heat of the day. Wishbone watches wordlessly as the pair launch into a fight filled with emotion and bloodshed. Her heart wrenches at the sound of the mare’s ribs cracking beneath the weight of the stallion’s hooves… Hadn’t she also just suffered — <i>died</i> even — beneath a stallion? If Nikkai hadn’t reminded her of the consequences of her own death, this situation certainly would.
While the cry of the mother to her daughter had tugged at her heartstrings, this death is much more real to Wishbone.
<i>Ivar’s weight dragging her down, down, down just as the sun sinks lower, lower, lower as the palomino chokes on her blood.</i>
<i>Ivar’s teeth shredding the tissue of her throat to leave a gaping hole just as the stallion drags his hooves across his face to pull his eyes from their sockets.</i>
All of it chills her to the bone because it feels startlingly close to reality.
“Please,” she had tried to whisper to Ivar, but the ocean had dragged the air from her mouth and silenced her voice. <i>“Please,”</i> this mare whispers, but the blood is thick and choking.
Wishbone wouldn’t be able to stop the palomino from dying now, but could she prevent it from happening? As if the question were an answer of its own, a strange feeling of lightness accompanied a soft <i>whoosh</i> in her ear before the whole scene began again. The meeting of two gazes, while a third watches. She had to act quickly before the weight of hooves caused the mare’s ribcage to snap and curl into itself like a fallen baby bird.
<b>“STOP!”</b> Her voice is a warrior cry, even as she scrambles across the sand in an attempt to reach them. The old muscle of her power is shaky at first, the sand only just stirring beneath the hooves of the orange-eyed stallion. Wishbone feels her grip tighten on the ancient bones and the solidifying action allows her to move quicker than she was expecting. The ribcage of a creature — much older than any of them combined, perhaps wiped out by the flames of a meteor — loosens itself from the depths of the sand-dunes and wraps itself around the stallion like a prison cell. Rather than launching his body against the palomino’s, the stallion finds himself colliding with strong, prehistoric bone. Droplets of sweat begin to form on the mahogany mare’s brow from the effort it takes to secure the cage. Various bits of the creature fly out from the ground like flinty arrows, finding purchase against the ribcage to anchor it to the sand.
Though the stallion may thrash, there is little chance he will free himself.
Wishbone’s gaze turns to find the palomino’s own. Amber eyes meet amber eyes among fading sunlight. <b>“It’s ironic,”</b> she says huskily, <b>“that he is trapped in a ribcage when he was about to snap yours.”</b> While this in itself is ironic, the irony of the entire adventure is beginning to reach Wishbone but she manages to control the potential of a wild laugh into an amused smile instead. <b>“Who are you, anyway?”</b> A pause, her amber eyes glancing toward the stallion caught in the bone-cage. <b>“And who is he? He was about to kill you, ya know.”</b></div></div><center><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></center></div>