03-05-2016, 10:47 PM
Loam is… not the first, not the last - she has seen to the contribution of her own ruin through every foal that passes the unforgiving cradle of her hips, promising that she will never be the last but perhaps in her own way, the first for forsaking a bloodline of daughters that she has scattered to the four corners of the earth.
As to the rest… she has kept their names in the back of her mouth like stones and dark secrets, careful to not spill them outward in a voice fierce and beckoning. No, she hoards them like treasure in the darkest pits of her self like the way the shadows gather nearest her hip through no manipulation but simply because she is sable and sleek like them and they are of a kind, shadow and Loam.
Snap.
Snap.
The twigs don’t stop and their protests call to her and she spat back at them in an angry huff and waits, her patience is no patience at all but a predatory sort of stillness.
A name drifts to her, sleepy and poisonous and never more beautiful than the first time she heard it and she almost feels… something. “Hickory,” she drawls in an odd singsong voice so that it sounds more like “Hick-or-y,” high and sweet and Loam is immediately soothed in a way that only her old scummy pond can soothe her, like the cool dark of the wind that blows around them and rattles the twigs on the trees and Loam turns her emerald-green gaze towards the familiar bay and she says the name much more softly, more sweetly, without an ounce of Loam’s usual manipulative intent or poison, because… because Hickory was a strange meld of air, tree, and brightness that calmed Loam’s grave-dark self in ways that even the one that almost had all of her heart could not because… because, there was always a part that called out to her in the trembling dark and said, “Hickory.”
As to the rest… she has kept their names in the back of her mouth like stones and dark secrets, careful to not spill them outward in a voice fierce and beckoning. No, she hoards them like treasure in the darkest pits of her self like the way the shadows gather nearest her hip through no manipulation but simply because she is sable and sleek like them and they are of a kind, shadow and Loam.
Snap.
Snap.
The twigs don’t stop and their protests call to her and she spat back at them in an angry huff and waits, her patience is no patience at all but a predatory sort of stillness.
A name drifts to her, sleepy and poisonous and never more beautiful than the first time she heard it and she almost feels… something. “Hickory,” she drawls in an odd singsong voice so that it sounds more like “Hick-or-y,” high and sweet and Loam is immediately soothed in a way that only her old scummy pond can soothe her, like the cool dark of the wind that blows around them and rattles the twigs on the trees and Loam turns her emerald-green gaze towards the familiar bay and she says the name much more softly, more sweetly, without an ounce of Loam’s usual manipulative intent or poison, because… because Hickory was a strange meld of air, tree, and brightness that calmed Loam’s grave-dark self in ways that even the one that almost had all of her heart could not because… because, there was always a part that called out to her in the trembling dark and said, “Hickory.”