10-08-2021, 02:08 AM
The spotted child’s scream has barely left her lips, the echo not yet faded, when her body begins to change. She doesn’t know if it started after or before, and with nothing else to do she keeps on screaming. Four legs fuse into two, her back bends weirdly and small appendages sprout again from her new shoulders. The faded yellow dress still clings to her but it is tight, so tight, and then her face flattens and she subconsciously brings her hands to her face in horror. ”I can’t see!” It is not entirely true, but the loss of her peripheral vision into a more focused one makes her jerk her head left and right to try and see what is happening. All around her, horses are turned into what she assumes were their costumes, though she frowns at the bay horse that - under loud protest - is walking into the forest. What on earth had he dressed as?
The pain fades as quick as it had come, as if she had been struck by lightning again - nothing new there. She lies on the ground, disoriented as she tries to see and smell but finds that she has dulled senses in exchange for these suddenly sensitive appendages.
When the rhyme reaches her ears - belatedly, only through Five repeating it kindly for her (again and again and again) - she realizes that she has to cross. Well, thankfully Llorona knows how to run, for she has done so most of her life.
Too bad she only knows how to run on four legs.
She contemplates this, truly distracted by the thought, but then the groaning and creaking of living wood alerts her to the branch-fingers reaching for her and she has no time to lose. She starts to run in the only way she knows how - on hands and feet. It is hurtful because the hands are so sensitive, and inefficient as well, but at least she stays mostly out of reach. Her red hair frequently gets caught however, and oftentimes she is yanked to the forest floor. But Llorona knows that to stand still is to be struck - no, to die here, but she doesn’t have time to think about it.
It doesn’t take long for a witch to hit her with a spell. Green smoke explodes in her face and she lies on the floor, stunned, the roots of a tree grabbing her left stocking in an attempt to draw her to them, to bury her, eat her or otherwise bring her to her demise. She doesn’t care how they want her to die and really she shouldn’t; she cries and screams and when the stun-spell finally lets go, she yanks her foot free with a force she didn’t know she had. A loud snap tells her she broke it, or she broke the tree root? She couldn’t tell, but she continues on a limp.
She knows she isn’t going to make it. Pumpkin heads and trees enclose her, and another witch knows to hit her with a purple spell. She deforms, or so she believes, for this spell is all in her head. Her limping foot and hands full of thorns and scratches seem to melt before her eyes, and she can only crawl, crawl, then roll and slither until somehow she makes it to the river.
She slides into the cool water and welcomes death.
But the river disagrees. It is here to challenge her, not to give her respite. Piranhas and crocodiles come to her and bite her ankles, so that she wakes with a start. Flailing wildly, she sort-of surfaces, catches hold of some broomstick dropped by a with, and floats to the other side, where the river meanders onto a sandy, no, bone-dusted shore.
Eight is cackling again - or if it is not Eight, it may be one of those witches - the broomstick comes alive and smacks her backside until she moves. She crawls through the dust, coughing loudly, then makes it to a mountain. There is a cave and a path upward - caves had always been her hiding place when hiding from the lightning strikes, so she moves in that direction, still on hands and her one non-limping foot.
The pain fades as quick as it had come, as if she had been struck by lightning again - nothing new there. She lies on the ground, disoriented as she tries to see and smell but finds that she has dulled senses in exchange for these suddenly sensitive appendages.
When the rhyme reaches her ears - belatedly, only through Five repeating it kindly for her (again and again and again) - she realizes that she has to cross. Well, thankfully Llorona knows how to run, for she has done so most of her life.
Too bad she only knows how to run on four legs.
She contemplates this, truly distracted by the thought, but then the groaning and creaking of living wood alerts her to the branch-fingers reaching for her and she has no time to lose. She starts to run in the only way she knows how - on hands and feet. It is hurtful because the hands are so sensitive, and inefficient as well, but at least she stays mostly out of reach. Her red hair frequently gets caught however, and oftentimes she is yanked to the forest floor. But Llorona knows that to stand still is to be struck - no, to die here, but she doesn’t have time to think about it.
It doesn’t take long for a witch to hit her with a spell. Green smoke explodes in her face and she lies on the floor, stunned, the roots of a tree grabbing her left stocking in an attempt to draw her to them, to bury her, eat her or otherwise bring her to her demise. She doesn’t care how they want her to die and really she shouldn’t; she cries and screams and when the stun-spell finally lets go, she yanks her foot free with a force she didn’t know she had. A loud snap tells her she broke it, or she broke the tree root? She couldn’t tell, but she continues on a limp.
She knows she isn’t going to make it. Pumpkin heads and trees enclose her, and another witch knows to hit her with a purple spell. She deforms, or so she believes, for this spell is all in her head. Her limping foot and hands full of thorns and scratches seem to melt before her eyes, and she can only crawl, crawl, then roll and slither until somehow she makes it to the river.
She slides into the cool water and welcomes death.
But the river disagrees. It is here to challenge her, not to give her respite. Piranhas and crocodiles come to her and bite her ankles, so that she wakes with a start. Flailing wildly, she sort-of surfaces, catches hold of some broomstick dropped by a with, and floats to the other side, where the river meanders onto a sandy, no, bone-dusted shore.
Eight is cackling again - or if it is not Eight, it may be one of those witches - the broomstick comes alive and smacks her backside until she moves. She crawls through the dust, coughing loudly, then makes it to a mountain. There is a cave and a path upward - caves had always been her hiding place when hiding from the lightning strikes, so she moves in that direction, still on hands and her one non-limping foot.