she’s got jumper cable lips
she’s got sunset on her breath. now i inhaled just a little bit, now i’ve got no fear of death
Despite the heat of summer, Nerine’s temperatures are much milder compared to her homeland’s. Wishbone often reflects upon their similarities and differences — not with any sort of ill will — and she will find new parallels almost every time. The waves are the same (high tide and low tide, rhythmic motions against the shoreline in tune with the moon’s song) but the oceans are different (Nerine’s can often sting her skin when she wades while there is rarely a chilly moment from Tephra’s southern ocean).
This is where Wishbone finds herself when her name rides on the breeze. The ocean is warm against her heels and an assortment of gray-toned pebbles rush gently over her feet. Another parallel — while Tephra’s shores are dark and black from the ash of the volcano, Nerine’s shores supply different varieties of beachfront, both gray-sand and pebbled and beige-tossed. With a final look at the horizon, the mahogany queen turns and heads toward the voice.
She makes good time, hellbent on being timely. Wishbone’s always been the type to jump head-first into whatever water (no matter how murky) is presented to her and queenhood is no different. She will not be a lazy queen, spending her days braiding her hair while voices call her for her like a screaming cacophony.
A russet-and-white stallion’s shape appears soon. He smells of the common-areas most prominently, but there’s underlying tones of warm, sweet beaches and emerald tropical foliage. “Hello, stranger.” She greets him with a brilliant smile, one that is just as dazzling as the sun that warms their shoulders. Wishbone has never been one for important titles and, still unsure of this man’s allegiance (she has never been to Ischia before), she doesn’t deem it necessary to announce herself now. “I’m Wishbone. How can I help you?” She is curious as to how he’s gotten her name (and, in his call, followed her own with Scorch’s) and so her amber eyes turn to his face with nearly-harsh intention.
wishbone
@[Belgaer] / @[Scorch]