haze like a fever
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
Climbing the volcano has been Wishbone’s lifelong goal. She’s been racing up and slipping down the rocky slopes from the first moments she could walk, tripping over her heels and scraping up her knees. In her young age she’d never seen the faint trail that wound up the volcano’s face, curling around steep slopes and rocks larger than her father.
But it’s been a year since her birth and she’s grown both physically and mentally. Her mahogany body is covered in a fine layer of mingled sweat and dirt from the climb as she rounds the corner. Wishbone’s muscles are aching from her adventure, but it’s a pain that only further encourages her. Tephra lies spread below her like an ashen kingdom and she can see the ocean in the distance, kissing the pale blue of the horizon.
“Oh, shit!” The thin trail she’s been following has leveled out to a large expanse of rock alongside the cliff-face, but there’s a winged stallion slathered in blood occupying it. For a moment, Wishbone is suspicious. He doesn’t smell of Tephra (there’s a hint of fire and smoke, but otherwise he is covered in blood, fresh lake, and windswept mountainside) but as she steps closer, she begins to recognize him.
Castile. His face brings to mind images of Loess and her diplomatic visit with her parents. It hadn’t been too long ago — only last season — and the memories are fresh enough in her mind to recognize the Loess regent. Wishbone rushes forward quicker than before, autumn eyes searching over his body for signs of blood loss. “God, what happened to you?” He looks drained and tortured, but she feels a sudden sharpness when she realizes the blood isn’t his.
Although the realization flares in her eyes, Wishbone decides not to say anything about it. Instead, she asks a question that’s poised as though he were on the border of their island waiting politely. “What are you doing here?”
But it’s been a year since her birth and she’s grown both physically and mentally. Her mahogany body is covered in a fine layer of mingled sweat and dirt from the climb as she rounds the corner. Wishbone’s muscles are aching from her adventure, but it’s a pain that only further encourages her. Tephra lies spread below her like an ashen kingdom and she can see the ocean in the distance, kissing the pale blue of the horizon.
“Oh, shit!” The thin trail she’s been following has leveled out to a large expanse of rock alongside the cliff-face, but there’s a winged stallion slathered in blood occupying it. For a moment, Wishbone is suspicious. He doesn’t smell of Tephra (there’s a hint of fire and smoke, but otherwise he is covered in blood, fresh lake, and windswept mountainside) but as she steps closer, she begins to recognize him.
Castile. His face brings to mind images of Loess and her diplomatic visit with her parents. It hadn’t been too long ago — only last season — and the memories are fresh enough in her mind to recognize the Loess regent. Wishbone rushes forward quicker than before, autumn eyes searching over his body for signs of blood loss. “God, what happened to you?” He looks drained and tortured, but she feels a sudden sharpness when she realizes the blood isn’t his.
Although the realization flares in her eyes, Wishbone decides not to say anything about it. Instead, she asks a question that’s poised as though he were on the border of their island waiting politely. “What are you doing here?”
@[Castile]