She is of the old blood of Beqanna. All made up of the dust of deserts and the sweat of jungle heat. Created out of the nobodies and nothings of a time long ago. But time is mercurial here where immortals roam and the dead often cross back into mortality. There are many here who lived during the time of her grandparents without having aged enough to tell them from the newly born.
Blood is rather thin to an orphan (ancient or not).
Narcisa, pale as alabaster and softer than the belly of a newborn hare, does not think much of blood as she slips through moonlit trees. She revels in the night. The obscurity of darkness that hinders most leans to favor Narcisa’s moon eyes. To her, the darkness is nothing. However, one barely needs the sense of sight to capture a creature as brilliantly pale as she. Bathed in shadow though she may be, the darkness it would take to drown her is not measured tonight.
The rush of water over rocks calls thirst to her lips. She ventures from the trees to the edge of the racing water. Moonlight dresses her fully as she lowers her lips to the frigid surface. How she glows like bone picked clean.
@[Nodens]
Blood is rather thin to an orphan (ancient or not).
Narcisa, pale as alabaster and softer than the belly of a newborn hare, does not think much of blood as she slips through moonlit trees. She revels in the night. The obscurity of darkness that hinders most leans to favor Narcisa’s moon eyes. To her, the darkness is nothing. However, one barely needs the sense of sight to capture a creature as brilliantly pale as she. Bathed in shadow though she may be, the darkness it would take to drown her is not measured tonight.
The rush of water over rocks calls thirst to her lips. She ventures from the trees to the edge of the racing water. Moonlight dresses her fully as she lowers her lips to the frigid surface. How she glows like bone picked clean.
@[Nodens]