05-25-2018, 06:48 PM
haze like a fever
i fell like a dreamer for sweet tea and lemonade; it clings to my t-shirt it’s loud and it lingers, designed to suffocate. i light up to find what i’ve known all this time, there’s some beauty here yet
At night, her thoughts are plagued with him. Her dreams are thick with imagery of a golden colt doused in shadow and mystery and grief. She hears the wolf’s growl, the shadow’s whisper, the colt’s hush. Sometimes Wishbone wakes covered with a thin layer of sweat darkening her mahogany skin, tangled mane plastered to her neck. The echo of his voice (“There are moments when I think I am going crazy”) will breathe through her mind long into her moments of wakefulness, when the shadows of the night crowd around her shoulders.
She finds solace in the constellations of the night, watching the thin tails of the shooting stars leave lasting impressions on the blink of her eyelids. These nights are not those of terror or frustration, but rather nights of loneliness and nostalgia. That shadowy river a year ago (had it really been that long already?) and the shadowy colt that came with it never leaves her mind. She plays the soundtrack of his voice with her name when her sides are sore from Scorch’s training or when the bitterness of the wind drives her into the mouth of a cavern.
It’s an early morning when she hears it — that hush of her name riding on a breeze of shadow and smog. The sky is just beginning to wake from the depths of the night and not even the birds have begun to stir from their tree-top nests. Wishbone turns immediately, sable nose flaring pink nostrils to take in that familiar scent, and pops a rapid buck before galloping toward the whisper of her name.
Her dark mane streams from the crest of her mahogany neck, auburn highlights hinted by the weak yawn of the sun. It isn’t long before she spots him — the golden boy shrouded in darkness — and a laugh careens past her mouth. It is the season of searching, it seems; first Wolfbane calling her name at the border and now Khaedrik whispering her name at the border. Her mind doesn’t catch the irony of it (two boys, two friends, two meetings within the same season) but only the joy that comes with reconnection.
She slows as she approaches him, her wild gallop reining in to an easy trot. She’s barely broken a sweat from her run between the nearby forest and her shadow-friend, the training with Scorch and the endurance of her breed lending her powerful lungs and sinewy, strong muscle. Wishbone’s amber eyes scan the space around Khaedrik’s legs, searching for that protective wolf that had lurked just over his shoulder the first time they met. Whether the shadow-creature is there or not, the girl stops just short of Khaedrik’s shoulder and tips her face up to lip at his mane, tugging at the errant strands just behind his ear.
“Khaedrik.” She whispers his name into the gold of his ear and the sound of his name is equal parts sunshine and fire. Another laugh draws from her mouth, soft and husky, before she takes a few steps backward to look him over fully. Dammit, have all her childhood friends turned into handsome young men? Wishbone’s amber eyes seem to portray this recognition clearly, but the shadow-boy could easily be having the same thought about her (her slender, feminine curves are evermore highlighted by the cords of sinewy muscle covered by the smooth mahogany of her skin).
Wishbone tosses her dark forelock out of her face, revealing the very-same reckless smile that dazzled her mouth as a child. “I thought you just went and melted into the shadows.” She laughs again, loud as the waves that erode the cliffs yet as bewilderingly beautiful as the thousands of constellations that shine above. “What are you here for?” It doesn’t occur to Wishbone that it could be her.
She finds solace in the constellations of the night, watching the thin tails of the shooting stars leave lasting impressions on the blink of her eyelids. These nights are not those of terror or frustration, but rather nights of loneliness and nostalgia. That shadowy river a year ago (had it really been that long already?) and the shadowy colt that came with it never leaves her mind. She plays the soundtrack of his voice with her name when her sides are sore from Scorch’s training or when the bitterness of the wind drives her into the mouth of a cavern.
It’s an early morning when she hears it — that hush of her name riding on a breeze of shadow and smog. The sky is just beginning to wake from the depths of the night and not even the birds have begun to stir from their tree-top nests. Wishbone turns immediately, sable nose flaring pink nostrils to take in that familiar scent, and pops a rapid buck before galloping toward the whisper of her name.
Her dark mane streams from the crest of her mahogany neck, auburn highlights hinted by the weak yawn of the sun. It isn’t long before she spots him — the golden boy shrouded in darkness — and a laugh careens past her mouth. It is the season of searching, it seems; first Wolfbane calling her name at the border and now Khaedrik whispering her name at the border. Her mind doesn’t catch the irony of it (two boys, two friends, two meetings within the same season) but only the joy that comes with reconnection.
She slows as she approaches him, her wild gallop reining in to an easy trot. She’s barely broken a sweat from her run between the nearby forest and her shadow-friend, the training with Scorch and the endurance of her breed lending her powerful lungs and sinewy, strong muscle. Wishbone’s amber eyes scan the space around Khaedrik’s legs, searching for that protective wolf that had lurked just over his shoulder the first time they met. Whether the shadow-creature is there or not, the girl stops just short of Khaedrik’s shoulder and tips her face up to lip at his mane, tugging at the errant strands just behind his ear.
“Khaedrik.” She whispers his name into the gold of his ear and the sound of his name is equal parts sunshine and fire. Another laugh draws from her mouth, soft and husky, before she takes a few steps backward to look him over fully. Dammit, have all her childhood friends turned into handsome young men? Wishbone’s amber eyes seem to portray this recognition clearly, but the shadow-boy could easily be having the same thought about her (her slender, feminine curves are evermore highlighted by the cords of sinewy muscle covered by the smooth mahogany of her skin).
Wishbone tosses her dark forelock out of her face, revealing the very-same reckless smile that dazzled her mouth as a child. “I thought you just went and melted into the shadows.” She laughs again, loud as the waves that erode the cliffs yet as bewilderingly beautiful as the thousands of constellations that shine above. “What are you here for?” It doesn’t occur to Wishbone that it could be her.
@[Khaedrik]