
Beneath the glittering surface of the water she hears the ebb and flow of the tide, hears the clicks and calls of creatures that few have ever seen, and more so she can piece together the sudden turns of fish and beast: the vibrations tickling her skin. Yet these are not her waters, these are sunny and bright: laden with bait-fish that form massive shoals and tantalize seal and shark, dolphins and whales. Hers are deeper, darker and colder… a place where pressure threatens her bones and muscle, and where she can heart the cracks of the earth beneath the sea.
Leviathans bones and Kraken beaks little the floor amidst broken shells and ash, and all the light is gone: only cold and black water, only the feeling of eye and the reflections of colors dancing in the distances… the bioluminescence fading in time. She dreams here, wanders and sleeps: dreams and imagine the great bones as skyscrapers and all the world as a city of madness and ominous sleep. The non-euclidean geometry is too impossibly perfect in its form, and the streets glitter with dried blood and mother of pearl.
Barnacles and algae, the watery kelp stretching… she dreams of it: of the place where the Stone rests and all the darkness whispers profanities and heresy.
Yet, she is dreaming again, her eyes closed and mind roving as she moves through leaves and brush- through vines and nettle. Ancient and impenetrable, the forest is calm: sunlight piercing the canopy and Yidhra forced to endure as its light touches and burns the porous and hairless skin. Watery and wet she gleans, the mist and fog aiding in this; but she smells of salt and of the sand. Displaced and curious the Kraken-esque mare allows the mass of tentacles where her tail should be to grasp and tug- to root out leaf and grass, and flower… feeling, smelling, and tasting all at once.
Those on her shoulder reach higher to place frosted leaf and fruit: to brush the mass along her neck into place as she skirts through the wintery depths of the primordial forest and finds herself entirely fascinated by all the newness of her senses. Insomuch that, for the moment, she cannot hear the crushing of snow drifts and fragile brier… the dull thudding hooves that carry someone closer and closer.
When she turns the appendages on her face sink and Yidhra exposes the glossy beak beneath, chattering and clacking it together in a snapping sound the mimics laughter. “Oh, hello.” she speaks, smoke and heady: her voice is deep and touched by an accent lost to time. “Dreaming? Or awake?” she muses, considering her newest guest.
Yidhra
@[Colby]