11-23-2017, 09:28 PM
Wound has always been fond of the night. She is particularly fond of the moments between day and night — when the noise of life either fades to sleep or builds to activity, when the light of day fades into shadows or climbs into warmth, when the world around her is painted in rosy, lazy hues of pinks and purples and blues and oranges and reds. But the quiet of the night and the sights of the constellations always capture her attention with admiration.
To think that something might have created this world amazes her.
She enjoys the way the stars unfold as the darkness progresses, she enjoys the way colts and fillies settle down against their mother’s breasts (and how she prays to become one of those mothers someday), she enjoys the shadows as they envelop her in their familiar embrace. Wound has lived in the shadows most of her life, cocooned against their sheltering arms. They had hid her — with her deformed leg, with her often itchy, swollen skin, with her never-quite healed cuts and bruises — from the world with lingering touches, whispering of how she is better off with them.
It had taken Wound a long time to push herself away from the shadows. Yet still, though she calls an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people her home, she finds comfort in the dark of night.
He moves to meet her halfway, sand softly shuffling against his hooves. Wound’s ears twist toward him, watching as he grows more defined as the space between them is lessened. His words hit her eardrums with unfamiliarity. The songs of other voices are still abstract to her mind’s ear — she is used to hearing the low swoon or slippery slope of her brothers’ voices.
A smile finds her dark lips. “They are beautiful, especially when there is nothing to stop their light.” She has often found herself disappointed when clouds or branches or fog hinders the faraway glow of the constellations. His question sends a chill down her spine, but she plays off the shake as though she were to rid herself of the salty water still dripping off her body.
How is she supposed to tell a stranger that the reason she wades at night is to hide her deformity from the sights of others?
“Swimming at night calms me.” Her eyes glance back toward the open water. The waves reflect the brilliance of stars and full moon, glowing almost a liquid silver mingling with the depth of navy. “It’s like wading through a sea of stars.” Wound is distracted, for a moment, watching the tide push the waves onto the beach only to suck it back in. She can already feel her skin swell and itch from the dirt and grit of the sand, so she gives herself another rough shake.
“Excuse my manners. I’m Wound.”
@[Warrick]
To think that something might have created this world amazes her.
She enjoys the way the stars unfold as the darkness progresses, she enjoys the way colts and fillies settle down against their mother’s breasts (and how she prays to become one of those mothers someday), she enjoys the shadows as they envelop her in their familiar embrace. Wound has lived in the shadows most of her life, cocooned against their sheltering arms. They had hid her — with her deformed leg, with her often itchy, swollen skin, with her never-quite healed cuts and bruises — from the world with lingering touches, whispering of how she is better off with them.
It had taken Wound a long time to push herself away from the shadows. Yet still, though she calls an unfamiliar place with unfamiliar people her home, she finds comfort in the dark of night.
He moves to meet her halfway, sand softly shuffling against his hooves. Wound’s ears twist toward him, watching as he grows more defined as the space between them is lessened. His words hit her eardrums with unfamiliarity. The songs of other voices are still abstract to her mind’s ear — she is used to hearing the low swoon or slippery slope of her brothers’ voices.
A smile finds her dark lips. “They are beautiful, especially when there is nothing to stop their light.” She has often found herself disappointed when clouds or branches or fog hinders the faraway glow of the constellations. His question sends a chill down her spine, but she plays off the shake as though she were to rid herself of the salty water still dripping off her body.
How is she supposed to tell a stranger that the reason she wades at night is to hide her deformity from the sights of others?
“Swimming at night calms me.” Her eyes glance back toward the open water. The waves reflect the brilliance of stars and full moon, glowing almost a liquid silver mingling with the depth of navy. “It’s like wading through a sea of stars.” Wound is distracted, for a moment, watching the tide push the waves onto the beach only to suck it back in. She can already feel her skin swell and itch from the dirt and grit of the sand, so she gives herself another rough shake.
“Excuse my manners. I’m Wound.”
@[Warrick]