Alone but never truly quiet, the serpent trudges through the muddy remnants of a rained on forest. She only traverses the outskirts of the woods, where the river meets the foliage in both muddy brown and vibrant green. This time of year the vibrant is muted by brilliant reds and oranges and yellows, then buried beneath the dull brown of endless dead and dying things. Frey hates the dead and dying things, hates the way the summer turns into fall. She’ll never admit to anyone—not even herself—but she comes alive within the life of spring and summer, as she is just a fish out of water amongst fall and winter.
That discomfort is evident as she draws closer the river, drawn to its rush because its gentle burble reminds her so much of her father. Her father, drawn so much closer to the water than she. Not because the water was his lifeline, but because he spun so many stories of the sea—good and bad—that any impressive body of water reminds her of him. Though not necessarily active in her life, he certainly tried—so even when the water is frigid, its rush is welcome as it covers her body in goose flesh.
That is how she stands, hooves just barely tipped in the opaque liquid, spine tingling with goosebumps as she thinks entirely quietly and to herself. How could such a brilliant, sunny autumn morning fill her with so much melancholy? Frey has never been a creature meant for happiness, never felt fulfilled or even entirely certain. She is a girl buried deep within, surviving off of adrenaline and thorny, protective barriers. Perhaps she is a but a hedge now, scaled and quiet, certainly intimidating upon the shores of a raging river.
Ever vigilant, she is silent. Her rattlesnake tail shivers with just slightest hint of annoyance.
That discomfort is evident as she draws closer the river, drawn to its rush because its gentle burble reminds her so much of her father. Her father, drawn so much closer to the water than she. Not because the water was his lifeline, but because he spun so many stories of the sea—good and bad—that any impressive body of water reminds her of him. Though not necessarily active in her life, he certainly tried—so even when the water is frigid, its rush is welcome as it covers her body in goose flesh.
That is how she stands, hooves just barely tipped in the opaque liquid, spine tingling with goosebumps as she thinks entirely quietly and to herself. How could such a brilliant, sunny autumn morning fill her with so much melancholy? Frey has never been a creature meant for happiness, never felt fulfilled or even entirely certain. She is a girl buried deep within, surviving off of adrenaline and thorny, protective barriers. Perhaps she is a but a hedge now, scaled and quiet, certainly intimidating upon the shores of a raging river.
Ever vigilant, she is silent. Her rattlesnake tail shivers with just slightest hint of annoyance.
