She's grown to dislike mornings.
It reminds her of how old she's getting. In the warm light of sunrise her curves grow sharp, her air of mystery grows small and solid and real. There is grey flecked on her muzzle and across her withers, there is a weary hardness in her eyes that can only be explained by time. If she is beautiful, it is in a subtle way.
It is clear she has been traveling by the mud that cakes her legs and underbelly, and the brambles in her long silver tail. It is impossible to tell if she is tired. She wears an expression that suggests she is used to always being tired, the sort of look that should be reserved for grandmothers and lawyers-- although she falls in neither of those categories.
Handsome men were never high on her list of priorities, so when the world began to end she had forgotten about the golden buckskin and the way he made her feel a bit like a field a wheat when the wind makes it dance.
She does not recognize him at first. When he approaches, volcanic steam billows between them in waves. Sometimes he is just a dark shape barely visible through the haze, like a dream or a ghost, and other times he is so very real. And then he stops a few lengths from her and the curtain of steam between them is thin now but she can still see all the details of his face that she had either forgotten or not noticed to begin with.
She had forgotten how he made looking good seem so easy. (It is vaguely infuriating.)
She had not forgotten his name.
"Hello Magnus." After hours, maybe even days, of silence, her voice sounds unfamiliar to her own ears. She hears it as he might-- defensive, surprised, pleased.
"It's North," she politely reminds him, with a teasing smile that suggests "but you didn't forget, did you?" She gestures to the black cat curled in a tight little ball on the small of her back. "This is Arty. He found me after I died. Maybe because I died." The circumstances are a little fuzzy (death will do that to you) and the cat had not been very forthcoming with the details. Arty groans at the mention of his name but does not stir. It is unclear if he is asleep or busy ignoring them.
She peers at him, looking for signs of the contagion-- bloody nose, ragged breathing, the hangdog look of a man waiting to die. He appears healthy, but she needs to be sure. She had always been a straight shooter, time and even death had done nothing to change that. "Are you infected?"
Her voice is carefully neutral, but between the two of us, she's hoping his answer is no.
N O R T H
"In her the earth was silent, as it is silent at sunrise,
and the earth in her was profound, like the sunrise."
It reminds her of how old she's getting. In the warm light of sunrise her curves grow sharp, her air of mystery grows small and solid and real. There is grey flecked on her muzzle and across her withers, there is a weary hardness in her eyes that can only be explained by time. If she is beautiful, it is in a subtle way.
It is clear she has been traveling by the mud that cakes her legs and underbelly, and the brambles in her long silver tail. It is impossible to tell if she is tired. She wears an expression that suggests she is used to always being tired, the sort of look that should be reserved for grandmothers and lawyers-- although she falls in neither of those categories.
Handsome men were never high on her list of priorities, so when the world began to end she had forgotten about the golden buckskin and the way he made her feel a bit like a field a wheat when the wind makes it dance.
She does not recognize him at first. When he approaches, volcanic steam billows between them in waves. Sometimes he is just a dark shape barely visible through the haze, like a dream or a ghost, and other times he is so very real. And then he stops a few lengths from her and the curtain of steam between them is thin now but she can still see all the details of his face that she had either forgotten or not noticed to begin with.
She had forgotten how he made looking good seem so easy. (It is vaguely infuriating.)
She had not forgotten his name.
"Hello Magnus." After hours, maybe even days, of silence, her voice sounds unfamiliar to her own ears. She hears it as he might-- defensive, surprised, pleased.
"It's North," she politely reminds him, with a teasing smile that suggests "but you didn't forget, did you?" She gestures to the black cat curled in a tight little ball on the small of her back. "This is Arty. He found me after I died. Maybe because I died." The circumstances are a little fuzzy (death will do that to you) and the cat had not been very forthcoming with the details. Arty groans at the mention of his name but does not stir. It is unclear if he is asleep or busy ignoring them.
She peers at him, looking for signs of the contagion-- bloody nose, ragged breathing, the hangdog look of a man waiting to die. He appears healthy, but she needs to be sure. She had always been a straight shooter, time and even death had done nothing to change that. "Are you infected?"
Her voice is carefully neutral, but between the two of us, she's hoping his answer is no.
"In her the earth was silent, as it is silent at sunrise,
and the earth in her was profound, like the sunrise."
@[magnus] <3