11-15-2018, 01:31 AM
when the light came through,
i know i've only felt religion when i've lied with you ;
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Even though it hurt to breathe, her wanderlust could not be stifled. She was restless, perhaps even more so than usual. She was already so tired of being sick, and the illness had hardly begun. Her body was rebelling against itself, her lungs feeling heavy with the fluid and infection that was festering inside of them, but she still stood on trembling legs beneath a thickly branched tree in the forest. Snowflakes fluttered around her, clinging to strands of mane and delicate lashes as she blinks them away, and she watches in silence as they collect on the ground. She coughs, a horrendous and deep sound, sending small droplets of blood that stain the white snow. Trying not to look at it, she leaves her post beneath the tree, slowly beginning the journey back to Nerine.
She does not make it far.
With fever-glossed eyes she blinks, unsure if what she was seeing was real, or perhaps a result of delirium. The gold-blazed filly was born in Beqanna, but in the two years of her life, she realized she had only been exposed to the glittering and vibrant creatures; the wings and metallic markings, the shimmering scales and the dream makers. Others, as the mare before her, were made of darker things. She has not met the skeletons and demons, the poisonous and the ominous. She is not sure, yet, if this creature is any of those things, but she watches the twisting tentacles, listens to the clacking of a beak, and thinks that, maybe, she is in the midst of a feverish dream.
”Um....hi.” It is not often that the blue roan filly is at a loss for words. It is even rarer that she does not want to immediately touch someone — their wings, their scales, their shiny markings — but, unable to take her eyes from the writhing appendages (did they have a mind of their own?), she thinks better of it. The mare asks a question, but she is not sure if it is directed at her, or if the kraken-creature was musing it aloud to herself, though it is fitting because it’s exactly what she is also wondering. ”My name is Chryseis,” Her sweet voice is courser than usual, and she fights to muffle a cough as she speaks. There is a part of her that knows she should be quiet and not ask questions, but in her weak and illness induced hysteria she has less control of her mouth than usual. ”What are those?” She extends a delicate muzzle, reaching towards a suction cup lined limb, though she does not touch. There is not a trace of disgust or fear in her young voice, but instead, only an inquisitive eagerness.
chryseis.
and i'm still waking every morning but it's not with you
and i'm still waking every morning but it's not with you
@[Yidhra]