12-01-2020, 05:17 PM
take my soul & make it undone
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.
Wishbone cannot count the number of times she has stared into her reflection in the past couple of years. In those months after her heart started beating again and her lungs started breathing again, she had spent almost every waking moment looking into surfaces that bounced her face back into her eyes. A defined face had replaced her high cheekbones. The plethora of scars scattered across her knees like summertime freckles had vanished, replaced by a long vulture-claw scar across the left side of her face. The simple, natural colors of her body had melted into deep black twisted with a shimmering golden marking across the lines of her face.
Although she is too late to witness Grimjaw’s reaction to his new form, she knows well the grief that accompanies such a change.
Wishbone has been hesitant to approach the places of Beqanna she once called home. She’s never been one to shy from a challenge, but something within had shifted when she fell through the portal into the Land of the Living. She finds a bit of comfort in the quieter corners, where she can spend an entire morning grazing with the does and their fawns without speaking to another horse. If her younger self could have seen what she has become, she might have died much sooner.
In this peaceful lull in her life, Wishbone has grown rather fond of visiting the River at sunset. The dying sun casts spectacular colors over the busy, turbulent waters. Mystery unfolds before her eyes as the shadows creep closer and the depths of the river grow darker. She is late to the scene on this particular night, having drifted off into a nap after an exhausting swim in the southwestern ocean. The sound of a stranger’s voice meets her as she steps past the treeline, moving as smoothly as a shadow. It has taken her a while to grow used to the length of her new body — all legs and neck, built like a racehorse — but now she enjoys the way her nimble legs can carry her.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Her voice has always been a unique blend of honey and whiskey; her tunes are rough from her childhood spent among Tephra’s ash while a sweet lilt of femininity melts with the smoke. “I’m Wishbone,” she explains simply. The dark mare’s hope is that her name will ease his nerves — not because of who she was, but because a demon of the forest wouldn’t provide such friendliness to a stranger. She knows how the nighttime comes alive in these areas of Beqanna, but as Wishbone’s amber eyes find the stranger’s she is certain he would be able to hold his own against the shadows.
Although she is too late to witness Grimjaw’s reaction to his new form, she knows well the grief that accompanies such a change.
Wishbone has been hesitant to approach the places of Beqanna she once called home. She’s never been one to shy from a challenge, but something within had shifted when she fell through the portal into the Land of the Living. She finds a bit of comfort in the quieter corners, where she can spend an entire morning grazing with the does and their fawns without speaking to another horse. If her younger self could have seen what she has become, she might have died much sooner.
In this peaceful lull in her life, Wishbone has grown rather fond of visiting the River at sunset. The dying sun casts spectacular colors over the busy, turbulent waters. Mystery unfolds before her eyes as the shadows creep closer and the depths of the river grow darker. She is late to the scene on this particular night, having drifted off into a nap after an exhausting swim in the southwestern ocean. The sound of a stranger’s voice meets her as she steps past the treeline, moving as smoothly as a shadow. It has taken her a while to grow used to the length of her new body — all legs and neck, built like a racehorse — but now she enjoys the way her nimble legs can carry her.
“I didn’t mean to scare you.” Her voice has always been a unique blend of honey and whiskey; her tunes are rough from her childhood spent among Tephra’s ash while a sweet lilt of femininity melts with the smoke. “I’m Wishbone,” she explains simply. The dark mare’s hope is that her name will ease his nerves — not because of who she was, but because a demon of the forest wouldn’t provide such friendliness to a stranger. She knows how the nighttime comes alive in these areas of Beqanna, but as Wishbone’s amber eyes find the stranger’s she is certain he would be able to hold his own against the shadows.
@[grimjaw]