01-09-2020, 04:32 PM
take my soul & make it undone
be the one, be the one to take me home and show me the sun. i know, i know you can bring the fire, i can bring the bones. i know, i know you'll make the fire, my bones will make it grow.
When her eyes slide open, Wishbone wonders if everyone has to experience all she has been through to breathe again. It feels like a very long time has passed since she was pacing the border between Life and Death, pushing against the seam as though it might burst with the force of her passion for Life. She’d worn a dusty track into the ground with her pacing over the years, though Wishbone is certain that isn’t the reason she can feel her heartbeat once more. An outside force had allowed the gates of Death to spring open and, whatever it had been, she is grateful for it.
As the final tendrils of mist curl away from her sides, Wishbone realizes that the aches and pains of her recent adventure have disappeared. After reliving her own death, falling off a waterfall, suffering from dehydration, and fighting off a vulture who left a nasty wound, she was feeling enough pain to put her on the ground. The sheer drive to continue and the desire to reunite Craft and Anatomy had been the only things keeping her going in the desert. It seemed the mist had taken the assortment of discomforts away with it, leaving senses of rejuvenation and fiery vigor.
The sensation of a winter gale sweeping over her shoulders brings Wishbone’s attention to her surroundings. The cold face of Nerine stares at her, a gray-toned landscape freckled with hardy trees. The sound of an angry ocean pounding against the granite cliffs feels more like a lullaby than anything else. An instant smile lights up the mare’s face and she tips her nose toward the clouded sky to whisper “Hello; I’m home” to the land.
As Wishbone tilts her head back toward the ground, she notices the stark contrast of deep black legs against the pale snow. Her knees are unblemished, absent of the patchwork of scars that spoke of her childhood spent getting into mischief. A puddle of ice decorates the ground nearby and Wishbone moves toward it quickly. It takes fewer strides to reach the ice than she was anticipating and when she stares into the mirror, confusion is written across a face that doesn’t feel like it belongs to her.
The head that peeks out from the ice is long and well-defined. It is a deep shade of black aside from a golden badger face marking and a healed claw marking that travels from her left cheekbone up to her brow. Her surprise mingles with disbelief to produce a phrase that flies from her mouth. “What the fuck!” She would wonder if the ice is magic if it weren’t for the only things that remain familiar to her — the honey-whiskey sound of her voice and the amber-colored eyes that look out from the onyx face.
Wishbone finds she isn’t entirely disappointed with the change in her body. Almost everything about her is long in a handsome way and the golden marking (she assumes it is Craft’s doing) compliments the darkness of her face well. She laughs at her reflection for a moment, thinking of the irony of it… She had died in mahogany colors and now has risen again dressed in the favorite color of Death. Wishbone likes the costume change even more with that thought in mind and turns away from the ice to scan the landscape with her familiar amber eyes.
As the final tendrils of mist curl away from her sides, Wishbone realizes that the aches and pains of her recent adventure have disappeared. After reliving her own death, falling off a waterfall, suffering from dehydration, and fighting off a vulture who left a nasty wound, she was feeling enough pain to put her on the ground. The sheer drive to continue and the desire to reunite Craft and Anatomy had been the only things keeping her going in the desert. It seemed the mist had taken the assortment of discomforts away with it, leaving senses of rejuvenation and fiery vigor.
The sensation of a winter gale sweeping over her shoulders brings Wishbone’s attention to her surroundings. The cold face of Nerine stares at her, a gray-toned landscape freckled with hardy trees. The sound of an angry ocean pounding against the granite cliffs feels more like a lullaby than anything else. An instant smile lights up the mare’s face and she tips her nose toward the clouded sky to whisper “Hello; I’m home” to the land.
As Wishbone tilts her head back toward the ground, she notices the stark contrast of deep black legs against the pale snow. Her knees are unblemished, absent of the patchwork of scars that spoke of her childhood spent getting into mischief. A puddle of ice decorates the ground nearby and Wishbone moves toward it quickly. It takes fewer strides to reach the ice than she was anticipating and when she stares into the mirror, confusion is written across a face that doesn’t feel like it belongs to her.
The head that peeks out from the ice is long and well-defined. It is a deep shade of black aside from a golden badger face marking and a healed claw marking that travels from her left cheekbone up to her brow. Her surprise mingles with disbelief to produce a phrase that flies from her mouth. “What the fuck!” She would wonder if the ice is magic if it weren’t for the only things that remain familiar to her — the honey-whiskey sound of her voice and the amber-colored eyes that look out from the onyx face.
Wishbone finds she isn’t entirely disappointed with the change in her body. Almost everything about her is long in a handsome way and the golden marking (she assumes it is Craft’s doing) compliments the darkness of her face well. She laughs at her reflection for a moment, thinking of the irony of it… She had died in mahogany colors and now has risen again dressed in the favorite color of Death. Wishbone likes the costume change even more with that thought in mind and turns away from the ice to scan the landscape with her familiar amber eyes.