12-26-2018, 05:00 PM
It comes so naturally to her: fearless independence.
She’s alone in the meadow, as she has been for the past several months, having left her mother once she could reasonably fend for herself. Silt had always referred to Aurelie as her golden child—likely because of her bright yellow-gold eyes, inherited from her father, but Aurelie prefers to believe it was because she was her mother’s favorite. Silt had raised children before, and like Aurelie, they’d left her side when they were young. Aurelie has never met them, only knows their names—Twelve, Husk, Swell. She repeats the names in her head in case she ever comes across them in her travels, though even at her young age, she knows the unlikeliness of this.
As much as she craved this independence, she could not predict the loneliness that follows. So she wanders the common lands; listens to the rustling of the leaves as they fall and the murmur of conversations as she passes by. The meadow is the golden child’s favorite common land to meander about, the tall grass almost covering her entirely. She likes to pretend she’s invisible, trotting amongst the still-green grass, but her deep mulberry color contrasts—a dead giveaway. She comes to a stop, in front of a bay and white mare, quietly giggling as she attempts to sneak up on this stranger. Clearly she’s never heard of stranger danger.
She’s alone in the meadow, as she has been for the past several months, having left her mother once she could reasonably fend for herself. Silt had always referred to Aurelie as her golden child—likely because of her bright yellow-gold eyes, inherited from her father, but Aurelie prefers to believe it was because she was her mother’s favorite. Silt had raised children before, and like Aurelie, they’d left her side when they were young. Aurelie has never met them, only knows their names—Twelve, Husk, Swell. She repeats the names in her head in case she ever comes across them in her travels, though even at her young age, she knows the unlikeliness of this.
As much as she craved this independence, she could not predict the loneliness that follows. So she wanders the common lands; listens to the rustling of the leaves as they fall and the murmur of conversations as she passes by. The meadow is the golden child’s favorite common land to meander about, the tall grass almost covering her entirely. She likes to pretend she’s invisible, trotting amongst the still-green grass, but her deep mulberry color contrasts—a dead giveaway. She comes to a stop, in front of a bay and white mare, quietly giggling as she attempts to sneak up on this stranger. Clearly she’s never heard of stranger danger.
@[isle]