08-24-2016, 09:00 PM
the dead are gone, and the living are hungry.
There is an earsplitting creak, a rending of tree and earth and … something else. Lexa’s eyes widen in her carbon mask and cast quickly from side to side, trying to find the source of the unnatural sound. She backs up until a solid oak is at her rump, shielding her back.
And then something moves.
A grey mare pushes through the undergrowth, shedding brambles and earth like a second skin. Lexa winces as thorns tear at the fragile skin, sending blood trickling down the pale coat, but the mare does not seem to notice. And before she has time to ask the mare if she’s quite alright, the wounds start to heal before her very eyes, hair and flesh knitting together to form thin, pale scars.
She stays frozen, for a moment, holding her carbon armour in a tight embrace.
There’s something about this mare that just … screams power. Ancient power, from ages long, long past. Lexa has a feeling that her carbon armour will do very little here.
She lets the carbon bonds dissolve, and her armour dissolves into a black rain upon the earth beneath her, revealing her speckled coat and golden hoof. She stays where she is though, backed up against the old oak, for all the good that it will do her.
She would laugh, if she knew of their connection. If she knew that, eons ago, this mare had given birth to a son by the name of Ewan. And that that son had been the progenitor of a long line of horses, leading all the way down to her.
But she doesn’t know of course. Ewan is ancient, ancient history. Her family’s stories only go back so far as her great-grandmother Lea, and even those are few and far between. And there is nothing in this present moment to connect this mare to even Lea, so the thought of family does not cross her mind (except perhaps, to think briefly that Larken would laugh to see her so cautious).
So instead she takes one, cautious step forward, brown eyes attempting to seek out the mare’s own. And for lack of anything better to say she asks, “are you alright?”
And then something moves.
A grey mare pushes through the undergrowth, shedding brambles and earth like a second skin. Lexa winces as thorns tear at the fragile skin, sending blood trickling down the pale coat, but the mare does not seem to notice. And before she has time to ask the mare if she’s quite alright, the wounds start to heal before her very eyes, hair and flesh knitting together to form thin, pale scars.
She stays frozen, for a moment, holding her carbon armour in a tight embrace.
There’s something about this mare that just … screams power. Ancient power, from ages long, long past. Lexa has a feeling that her carbon armour will do very little here.
She lets the carbon bonds dissolve, and her armour dissolves into a black rain upon the earth beneath her, revealing her speckled coat and golden hoof. She stays where she is though, backed up against the old oak, for all the good that it will do her.
She would laugh, if she knew of their connection. If she knew that, eons ago, this mare had given birth to a son by the name of Ewan. And that that son had been the progenitor of a long line of horses, leading all the way down to her.
But she doesn’t know of course. Ewan is ancient, ancient history. Her family’s stories only go back so far as her great-grandmother Lea, and even those are few and far between. And there is nothing in this present moment to connect this mare to even Lea, so the thought of family does not cross her mind (except perhaps, to think briefly that Larken would laugh to see her so cautious).
So instead she takes one, cautious step forward, brown eyes attempting to seek out the mare’s own. And for lack of anything better to say she asks, “are you alright?”
lexa