06-18-2020, 10:46 AM
Beryl's grey lips become a firm frown as she considers the time lost. An entire lifetime stretches ahead of her, Eurwen says, an entire lifetime to find whoever it is that Beryl forgot, but it isn't her ability to look for her mother in the future that troubles her. Instead, she wonders what it says about her, is she the sort to simply forget everything? To leave everybody behind? A quick mental tally paints a damning picture, her mother, Leilan, the Isle, friends she has not sought out because she was busy moping in the shadows of the forest. Stormy eyes cast themselves away from Eurwen, skimming the northwestern horizon where the Isle awaits and her heart still quails at the thought of it, not ready to see the damage wrought. Not yet. But there is no other way except forward, and she nods, sighs, shakes her head, her white mane settling on either side of her long neck.
"My mother, ah, I don't even know if I could find her. I haven't seen her since I was very, very, young. How do you find someone you barely remember? When you don't even know their name?" She asks, but does not expect an answer. The only answer is to search endlessly. The shadows might help, but with the thin memory she retains of her mother's patchwork coat, they would probably just deposit her in front of whichever black-and-white mare they found first, in a successive line of surprised piebald mares, into eternity. Beryl is not certain she has an eternity, but the ridiculousness of the thought lightens her mood. A hint of a smile lifts the corners of her lips and she turns back to Eurwen.
"You'd have a hard time keeping me here if I wanted to leave, anyway," the slight upturn of her lips softens the cryptic remark into something of a joke, though it's true enough. The fast beating of her heart settles as Eurwen asks her the question she has been preparing for since they met at the pond in the Field, "I..."
Perhaps she did not prepare as well as she though, her tongue stumbles over the words.
"I lived here, as a child. Not here. Not Nerine-Nerine. Icicle Isle. But I left after we fought the black dragon who burned it. I just..." Her head shakes again, harder, "I'm just not ready to see it again, to see how it's changed, but I'd like to have a home again."
The memory of black sulfur smoke fills her nostrils and she chokes back the growl that wants to grate against her throat, pulls back against the way her hooves want to flex and claw furrows into the earth. She remembers the strong smell of his bloodied wing, the small victory of her lion-shape finding purchase there. A snort blows the daydream away.
"Perhaps I ask the same of you, 'Why Nerine?'"
"My mother, ah, I don't even know if I could find her. I haven't seen her since I was very, very, young. How do you find someone you barely remember? When you don't even know their name?" She asks, but does not expect an answer. The only answer is to search endlessly. The shadows might help, but with the thin memory she retains of her mother's patchwork coat, they would probably just deposit her in front of whichever black-and-white mare they found first, in a successive line of surprised piebald mares, into eternity. Beryl is not certain she has an eternity, but the ridiculousness of the thought lightens her mood. A hint of a smile lifts the corners of her lips and she turns back to Eurwen.
"You'd have a hard time keeping me here if I wanted to leave, anyway," the slight upturn of her lips softens the cryptic remark into something of a joke, though it's true enough. The fast beating of her heart settles as Eurwen asks her the question she has been preparing for since they met at the pond in the Field, "I..."
Perhaps she did not prepare as well as she though, her tongue stumbles over the words.
"I lived here, as a child. Not here. Not Nerine-Nerine. Icicle Isle. But I left after we fought the black dragon who burned it. I just..." Her head shakes again, harder, "I'm just not ready to see it again, to see how it's changed, but I'd like to have a home again."
The memory of black sulfur smoke fills her nostrils and she chokes back the growl that wants to grate against her throat, pulls back against the way her hooves want to flex and claw furrows into the earth. She remembers the strong smell of his bloodied wing, the small victory of her lion-shape finding purchase there. A snort blows the daydream away.
"Perhaps I ask the same of you, 'Why Nerine?'"
@[Eurwen]