[mature] wont be coming to church on sunday; ashhal

[Kensa]

for every tyrant, a tear for the vulnerable
in every lost soul, the bones of a miracle

She is a woman who would consume the world. 

Not like fire, or famine, or plague but as lovers consume one another. There is no desire to take or destroy (though some lovers take and destroy). Just to give herself over to the pleasure of existence, to bathe in texture, sound, color. This is likely a flaw, a sensory issue, maybe the input is just turned up a little too high. No complaints here. Some will judge her, or assume she is reckless or stupid, but the envious do tend to be critical. 

In summer Kensa is once again molten chocolate, despite her liver chestnut coat being thinned by the plague that has slimmed down her voluptuous curves. The dryer season has stolen away some of the greenery and she stands out against it, late afternoon light brightening the clearing  near the river to a white gold expanse, long grass half trampled by visitors. The river itself is low, noisy, rattling about in its bed of stones with musical complaints about long summers. 

Hyaline is much nicer than this right now, but she comes down and loiters anyway, hungry for experience. Had she even left home all last summer? She doesn’t remember, but likely not. Last summer she’d been far more girl than woman and not inclined to go looking for things beyond what the alpine sanctuary offered. 

The heat of the day has left her lazy, and the humid suede night is still hours off. She stands in this clearing and tries to decide if she wants to wade belly deep in the river or find some mossy corner of the forest to lie down in. Nothing wins in the end, because someone is coming up along the river. She raises her head a little higher, narrows her eyes a fraction. She tends to encounter familiar faces when she traipses around outside Hyaline but the tread approaching her sounds unfamiliar. A curious smile tugs the corner of her mouth, bold thing that she is she isn’t made nervous by the approach of a stranger.

kensa

for every dreamer, a dream. we're unstoppable with something to believe in.

[Ashhal]