thick skin / elastic heart [any]

[Thorunn]

She'd heard whispers of the Mountain and what it meant
Sure, she woke up here - but she left immediately, searching. Family ,friends, land...anything. She fell asleep within the borders of the Valley and woke up miles from home, alone, shivering in the cold. She didn't understand what the Mountain meant until later, until meeting others.
And she didn't understand what it meant to be mortal until this.
THIS being the clotted bloody mess now adhered to her face, granted by a horn and a stranger. A stranger named Violence, but still a stranger.
She trudges to the Mountain, her face burning with every step, the blood pulsing across the swollen mess. She's delirious, infected, dragging helplessly across the land until at last she falls at the threshold of the Mountain. There - here - she collapses into a heap of bones and mess and blood. The wound is seeping again through a disrupted clot.
If only she knew to ask for immortality.
If only.

[Sunday]

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It is not uncommon to find a relative in Beqanna.
It's uncommon for Beqanna to shift as it did.

These are truths Sunday doesn't know, for Sunday has been asleep.
Hibernating.
Whichever.

One moment Sunday was in the Amazons, serving as bloodrider to Scorch, looking for her missing child (that no one saw born). Humoring her, really. What are friends for, but not to aid us in our time of need?
The next moment Sunday felt tired, a great tiredness. She lay down and then...blackness.
Plants grew over her and covered her from the sight and smell of her sisters. She became nothing, a great nothing, until the lands shifted and spit her out on the Mountain. Even then she did not truly wake, she was still a slumbering giant. The moss over her like paint, until she is encouraged to rise.

Call it blood ties.
Call it the end of winter.
Call it what you like, the mare stretched her legs and shook the foliage off her body. She wandered, and it didn't take long before she saw the bleeding mess of Thorunn.
No, she doesn't know her name, or recognize her, but she feels a sort of ... familial connection. She knows she's not in the Amazons (where she is is a mystery) but perhaps something happened. She knows her sleep has been long. She lowers her muzzle to the mare at her feet and concentrates hard. She pulls on the magick of the land, feeling it flow - but not as before. There's a disruption, some snag in the line. It's not enough to keep her from healing the girl, but she is not...fixed. Her face is a scab and a scar, mismatched and hideous - but it will not bleed. It will not infect, hopefully.

Sunday is tired now, but curious. So she leaves the girl, knowing she is healed and will recover, to find answers.

SUNDAY

never put your faith in a prince. when you require a miracle, trust in a witch