she's no saint but she'll take you to your knees
try her boy but she'll still do what she please
The sun sinks slowly beneath the horizon, the stars blossoming and moon rising in all its pale and silver glory: the dull clouds drifting in the dark sky. Tephra is a place that smells of dew and sand, of warmth and the slightest touch of volcanic and sulfurous rock. A paradise of tall grass and fern, of palm trees and vines: shadows that dance through the slivers of the moon. Red and rosy the bubbling magma in the fissures seems to crackle and snap, a melody to chorus of grasshoppers and nightbirds.
Through the canopy the light illuminates dewy leaves and flowers, and Aysel can see the suggestion of movement from small lizards, frogs, and all sorts of creatures.
Her head hangs and the reddish blonde mane drips along her spattered neck: long and wavy, slightly silvering from the evident varnish coloration. Elegant in her own way she is thicker in build with a sort of warmblood appearance with a gait that moves quickly and smoothly, enough to make her a sort of ghost among the trees and throughout the land. Her dark blue eyes rove the shadows and silver flecks gleam and glisten, and for half a second she thinks she hears the sound of breathing and a heartbeat: the pulse of something familiar.
Silver light and stars catch her in the eye and she sees a shadow, the movement of another- and her heart stops so suddenly: a knot in her belly and a lump in her throat as she sees the dark haired and graying figure of someone from before. Like a ghost is passes through her and Aysel’s eyes widen as she chokes back a name, as her whole body is left to turn as it moves through her and vanishes: the reflection and memory of her shattered heart manifest.
‘No, please…’ she whispers so inaudibly it cannot be heard but her voice is on the edge of a sob and her chest seizes as she opens her mouth and winces: wrinkling in misery and contorted with rue.
She steps through the cold and dark: walks into where the imagine was and there is only the smell of Tephra and the feeling of vines wrapping around her. The familiar feeling of their strength as she tears them, ignores the way they drop to the ground, and pushes onward in the path of moonlight: chasing after a ghost.
At full speed she’s long and lean, her body so graceful she may as well be a leopard or jaguar rather than a horse: trees dodges and roots jumped as she clings to the hope: to the hunger, and to the memory. With a shove her weight is lifted into the air and she lunges over a small crevice: thudding on the ground and digging her hooves in as she breaks the treeline and the jungle: as she rushes into the wide field and the swaying green-grass sea.
Gone, the shadow is gone.
Every bit of her aches, the tender muscle and weary flesh: the bitter heart still beating in her chest. Aysel feels heat in her eyes, the salty tang and sting of tears and she suppresses it with a long exhale. Though she has to compose herself, in the corner of her eye she can see the parting grasses and vibrant color: the wings stretching out and all the soft curves of another. Younger and less tired, she seems to be and Aysel recalls her name only from brief meeting not proper introduction. The aged jaguar yawns, stretches and turns: her shoulders rolling back as she stalks forward and approaches the other mare.
“Pardon, we’re not formally introduced I believe.” she speaks up, the slow roll and purr in her voice affect by lilt and verve: a smoky Parisian accent that lingers in every syllable. “I am Aysel, and I formerly lived among the Amazons in the Jungle.” poignant but not harsh, she’s a formal creature, her dark eyes blue eyes watching and studying: a sort of regal posture maintained.
@[peregrine jude]