Hawke is too young, too full of the spirit of youthful, wild things, to stay long by her mother’s side.
She does not dislike nor distrust her mother, but she does not feel the eternal pull to remain rooted there, to sink her roots into the soil and anchor by her side like a weed. Instead, she is a pretty, feral thing with her nose always lifted into the wind, doing her best to discern the scents that carry along it buried amongst the sulfur and the ocean salt that twines around her. Often, her wanderings carry her far and deep into the land, her coltish legs traversing the volcanic soil until she lifts her skull and cannot place herself at all.
The first time she had found herself in such a predicament, she had sunk to the ground in thought. While she had considered crying, she had remained silent, her stubborn streak taking hold so that she frowned so hard she feared her mouth would fall off. Finally, she had lifted herself dry-eyed from the ground and wandered deeper into the night. When her father had found her, she had been near the foot of the volcano at dusk; she had been so enamored with the blackened rock, she had not even heard him coming.
Today, she knows the terrain better—enough that she can find herself home—but that does not stop herself from wishing herself lost. With nose buried in the grass, she wanders away from the place of sleep, following the trails of animals long since gone. That is until she hears the thundering of hooves. Her skull whips upward, hazel eyes wide and nostrils flaring as she hunts for the source of the sound.
Before she knows what she is doing, she is throwing her head back and taking chase after the streak of white-speckled filly, her fluffy tail streaking behind her, her gait all knees and tangled limbs. When they finally come to a stop along the banks of the sand and the water, her thin chest heaves and her breath comes in short bursts, but her eyes are fever-bright with joy. “What were you running from?” she questions in between gasps, unable to hide the excitement pounding in her veins. “Or was it to?”
hawke
I’m a princess cut from marble
{ smoother than a storm }