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Memory is a crazy woman \\ Gale, any islanders - Crackjaw - 10-01-2020
"Snooth." She's talking to herself, rubbing her nose against the smooth, sun-warmed, skin of... well, she does not know what the thing is, its shape is vast, it goes forever, like a fountain of wall erupting out of the sandy ground, and the shade it casts stretches hungrily for the sea. There is something familiar to it, something like the fish she has seen occasionally, stranded and stinking on the sands (and even she has thought better than to wonder about their taste, and so she struggles to put the name and shape to the thing in front of her) but it does not share their putrid smell. She presses her hungry tongue to it and it tastes like blood; hard, smooth, still hot, gushing from the island at a glacial pace, and something like worry clenches her heart. Her home is bleeding and no-one has noticed but the little white-eared mare. She presses herself against the iron of its blood, as though to seal the wound with her body, but only causes deep furrows in the sand with her hooves. Tears burn her yellow eyes and darken her red-gold cheeks, springing out of the impotence of her attempts, out of panic, out of a strange sense of the unfairness of things that doesn't quite touch on anger because Crackjaw never wholly remembers things well enough to be angry. Instead, she sobs quietly, bruising her own skin against the chipped sides of the orca statue she has found and cannot understand, and wonders where are the others, the man with the stars on his hide, and the blurred, vague shapes of those others who live here, whose faces are lost, blurred and distorted and forgotten. She knows there are others, but cannot recall if she has ever seen them, ever meet them. Has she? No, maybe she is wrong, maybe it is only Aedan with the sea salt flavoring his skin like tears and his soft voice, perhaps there is no-one else, and perhaps he has left, too. Maybe they've all gone because the island is dying and only she has stayed behind, foolish and forgotten, to stem the slow tide of its death, to be crushed and broken under unyielding oceans of heavy blood. She does not think of fleeing, the shining sea beckons but she does not know how to swim, and can only scrape sharply angled teeth against the orca's side, chipping away flakes of paint that cut her lips and tongue until she bleeds, too, and leaves thin smears of red across its cracked flanks. Crackjaw @[Gale] yeah, I dunno what this is, please enjoy lol RE: Memory is a crazy woman \\ Gale, any islanders - Gale - 10-04-2020
RE: Memory is a crazy woman \\ Gale, any islanders - Crackjaw - 10-29-2020
She is lost, lost to the death of the island, and her own, too, but she cannot comprehend her own mortality - though, like a child, she understands that others can die. She does not know there is magic in her blood that prevents her from dying where others would were they as thin as she has been. She does not know that the separation between this life and the next has been worn so thin that others cross it at a whim, and this, perhaps, is best because it would only confuse her. Still, she has seen others die, and some dark, instinctual place inside her tells her wordlessly to be wary of death, because someday she, too, might see its face. It is not likely, but she does not know, so she presses her thin frame against what she believes to be an island's wound as if the hard edges of her bones could staunch the flow, and she bleeds and she cries, unwary, until a voice seeps through the cracks of her skull and oh-so-slowly, those tear-drowned golden eyes open, unfocused and rolling as a piece of the dawn sky shudders out of time and pulls away from the dying day to question her. Her attention lingers over the seashell curl of his horns and the stripes that fall over his neck like the first rays of sunlight creeping over the edge of the sea, and she does not answer him, but she does stop, distracted. There is a brief moment that almost seems like clarity when her sunshine eye find the shocking blue of his and her jawless head tilts like some unfinished, nightmare thing, pink tongue curled so its tip presses against the ridges of her upper palate, her teeth grown a touch too long, a touch too sharp, with nothing grind against and keep them flat. There is a moment, and then it is gone, swallowed again by sea-mist and confusion and a sort of vague awe. In the evening light, the winged stallion glows like a god of the sky and although she has already forgotten what he has asked of her, she knows that he has come almost certainly to punish her for some forgotten misdeed. Why else would she be crying? Why else would the taste of blood still ring bright on her tongue? Her white ears fall limp, angling oddly out to the side and her head drops low, just below her withers. "I... s-- sothy." And she is sorry, enough so that she stumbles over the word with its hard Rs that she cannot pronounce. Hot tears spring up again in her eyes, but she does not move away, not from the island's slow bleed nor from the spectral blue pegasus, though she seems to sink deeper into herself and the tangle of her mind the longer they stand in the silence of the dimming day. Crackjaw @[Gale] RE: Memory is a crazy woman \\ Gale, any islanders - Gale - 11-08-2020
RE: Memory is a crazy woman \\ Gale, any islanders - Crackjaw - 11-21-2020 @[Gale] *translation: No crabs. No. No. Also, i hate that you can say Ps with your tongue because it makes it look like I forgot she doesn't have a bottom lip lmao RE: Memory is a crazy woman \\ Gale, any islanders - Gale - 11-23-2020
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