Draped in the cloak of past sins. Charcoal rimmed eyes that are far too pale, far too wide. Dark storms churn with the white foam of stormy seas over her skin, blanketing her with the most luscious of velvets. She touches with light toes, over soil and sand, over bones and creatures that crawl.

Her name is forgotten on the tongues of strangers but the chant of 'kingslayer' teased with blistered and split tongues whisper against her skin, braided into her tangled mane. She punishes them with closed eyes, the blatant ignorance of acknowledgement far was sharper than any sword, stinging and swollen.

Their ugly faces turn and watch with bulging eyes, gripping her throat, drinking her sweat like a hundred blind suns. The painted mare only smirks mildly as she presses more dirt into the ground with each step, adding space between her and the greedy prying eyes.

She is in the meadow, the grass is green, sharp teeth begin the tasking melody of 'clip-rip-swallow'.

Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.

The mare watches from behind the white mask that hides the darkness that lies below her surface. She knows she will not be alone for long. Beqanna, the very name uttered upon a dying man's lips, is gripped between four hard hooves. She wonders what the land would bring to her.

kingslayer

the girl who lost her glow