Romantica
The blush ripples over her own silver hide, a dusted rose, seashell pink complimenting the steel of her womanly form. She picks her way carefully over a broken and scarred land, like hungry finger over braille, reading the tragedy just beneath the skin of a revolving land. Romantica was nothing more than a lost soul among the flood of countless others. Winter had left her slightly gaunt, her ribs a little more exposed beneath the stretch of her velvet skin but her eyes the brilliance of her sea glass eyes seem to float beneath the paleness of her hair.
A man is not far off the frozen path in the forest that she currently followed. He is a deepen grey beast with wings tugged neatly against his spine. A look of wildness swells just behind the darkness of his eyes, it is feral, angry, frightening. Romy catches her breath for a moment as she hesitates with a hovering hoof. The world had felt too quiet as of late, sickness coated the air like scum of a leper's tongue. Romy is understandably cautious.
The world had turned rotten like a bountiful harvest that had been forgotten. It turned to sickness and misfortune for the residents had squandered their given goods. What the great gods gave then they could surely take. There would be no exceptions in their dauntless trials. Souls would be weighted in a value that was unknown to the rose dappled mare but she is fairly certain hers would not amount to much.
What else could be lost?
Was the other a crazed beast, dazed by sickness, a fever pitch of the plague? If he was, it was far to late for the smaller mare to flee safely so what other options did she has? She exhales slowly, pale eyes on the other's form, listening to the draw of his breaths, jagged or methodical. Romatica decides to push forward along the slick winter path with watching eyes and tight little steps.