Darling, you have no idea what is possible || wound

[wound]

S he’s been subdued under the weight of their violent words and violent actions. Her hope wanes with every rise of that bleary-eyed, haze-shrouded sun. Each night brings upon new bruises and fresh blood, leaving her weaker than the night before. The chill of the cavern seems to cling more fiercely to the marrow of her bones, forcing a deep cold to rest along the vertebrae of her spine and the length of her leg-muscle. Autumn has descended into the forest-kingdom, although the only signs of its arrival are the bitter nights and the scattering of gold and maroon and sunflower yellow upon the ground. Wound will not grow a heavy, warm winter coat. Although she had spent some winters among the snow-drifts and ice that the common lands received, her body has grown used to the eternal humidity of Tephra. She will spend the snowy days shaking and shivering in her summer-thin body where her ribs poke against her sides and her womb swells with the weight of a child. When the demon queen’s hazy red fingers slip along Wound’s bruised and bloodied body, she’s hardly thinking of winter. The subtle threats of fear slipping through her mind bring her thoughts of Modicum Mortem’s torture in this cave not so long ago. The gashes from his hooves against her sides and the ache of his forceful invasion are still noteworthy injuries, even paired alongside Maugrim’s recent harmful gropings. The remnants of the once-king’s actions carry deeply-rooted memories that will haunt Wound for the rest of her life — carried with her in her nightmares and in the face of that little boy she will birth and in the scarring along her crest from angry, restraining teeth. The silvery mare startles at the sound of a warm voice echoing off the high, roughened walls of the cavern. Wound’s heart wearily prepares itself for whatever damage may come next, as a naughty child might anticipate the slap of a ruler across their outstretched palm. She doesn’t have much of a defense, the majority of her fighting words disappearing as the once-king had slipped out of the cavern with satisfaction. Her knotted, ratty forelock slips over one coffee-brown eye as Wound turns her petite head to look over the stranger. A throat-dry, grating voice slides from her cracked lips, her vocal chords rough with the frequent slice of her screams. “It seems we have.” There is a dark abyss of nothing in those empty, husky words.

credit to nat of adoxography.

@[Astarael] / sorry this is so late :/ pleaaase frick her up <33