the pumpkin queen; any

[Camelia]

I will run the streets and hostile lands, I will touch the rain with all I have
I will breathe the air, to scream it loud. My feet will never touch the ground.

Her steps are heavy as she walks to the Field. Ever since the world caved into itself and moaned its growing pains, Camelia has had a limp to her step. She’s been wondering most recently if that limp will ever go away (if that achiness in her right shoulder will ever fade, if the scabbed-over gash will ever cause a scar that will fade into nothing, if her pace will ever move smoothly and gently) and part of her knows that it won’t. She’s seen battle wounds before, although this is hardly a battle wound. They rarely disappear and more often than not, come back to haunt the bearer in their older years.

Camelia’s already a decent number of years into her life. She’s loved and been loved, lived and showed others to live, parented well and parented not so well, seen good and seen bad. All in all, if she died now, Camelia would consider her life fulfilling. She doesn’t want to die now; there are too many new things approaching on the horizon. She can almost taste them, breathe them, see them, and hear them. They excite her and perhaps that is the reason her feet bring her to the Field.

There’s a swarm of conversation already blossoming, although she has arrived in the late morning. She’d left in the early morning from Tephra, when the snow was still hard and crusted from the nighttime temperatures. It’s slightly warmer now, with the sun to provide weak heat on her back. Camelia’s eyes immediately find the dark mare. She pins her ears and sneers at anyone who draws too close, providing all the proper signs for a defensive mare. Sympathy warms Camelia’s sweet soul and she slowly approaches.

The wise mare keeps her expression open and warm, her steps slow, and her ears relaxed. She knows it can be confusing (frightening, nerve-wracking, and dangerous) to enter a new world and already have a herd of others begging you to join their land. Camelia understands the need to ease into situations instead of rushing head-on. Although that can sometimes work, it often isn’t the best approach to new circumstances. So the slender dunskin stops a respectful distance away; her feet stop their movement when the dark mare pins her ears and hardens her face.

“I’m Camelia. Can I help you?” Her voice is warm and soft, with a hint of a motherly song. Her nostrils quiver as she scents the mare from her distance. “You don’t smell like you’re from here. This is Beqanna.” She can’t give much more information than that about the world. She’s still learning about new parts of it every day.

Camelia