10-18-2020, 11:30 PM
AUBERGINE
As Aubergine grew older, she found herself becoming more and more curious about the rest of Beqanna. When she had been very little, her mother’s stories had been enough to satisfy her wonder, lying curled in the soft meadow-grass as Anonya murmured about old valleys and dales, chambers and tundras. And now there were volcanoes and white-sand beaches, dark forests and snow-capped mountains.
Eventually, as she reached nearly a year old, the stories were not enough.
Today, she seeks out Sylva, the place where the trees appear to be permanently suspended in autumn. She has developed a certain kind of fondness for the season, an appreciation for the beauty when the leaves die and fall.
No one seemed to find her blight nearly as lovely.
Maybe because when the plants around her die, they do not turn pretty colors; they only darken and rot.
She is a walking contradiction, with her ethereal glow and lovely face, but grass that sometimes turns black and dies underfoot. She remembers the first time she had touched one of the flowers that were woven into her mother’s mane and had watched as it withered away—shriveled and died, just because she had unknowingly willed it to. It was a curse from her grandfather, her mother had said; her mother did not speak of Dhumin with any kind of affection, and Aubergine learned not to press.
She walks the forest, her sage-green eyes—just like her father’s—scanning upwards to the orange and red leaves and the sky that peaks from behind them. It is then that she hears voices—are they in her head or being spoken out loud?—and her small ears flick forward, her heartbeat quickening with hope. She rounds the corner to find two colts, maybe a little older than her, or perhaps just taller, and she feels a sudden wave of shyness.
“Um...hi,” she says to them, stepping further into the open, her green eyes glittering and uncertain. “I...I forgot someone might actually live here.” She can feel her cheeks flushing warm, remembering now that her mother had warned her that not everyone was fond of strangers waltzing across their borders, not even innocent young girls. “My name is Aubergine,” she offers, hoping that an introduction might make up for her rude intrusion.
Eventually, as she reached nearly a year old, the stories were not enough.
Today, she seeks out Sylva, the place where the trees appear to be permanently suspended in autumn. She has developed a certain kind of fondness for the season, an appreciation for the beauty when the leaves die and fall.
No one seemed to find her blight nearly as lovely.
Maybe because when the plants around her die, they do not turn pretty colors; they only darken and rot.
She is a walking contradiction, with her ethereal glow and lovely face, but grass that sometimes turns black and dies underfoot. She remembers the first time she had touched one of the flowers that were woven into her mother’s mane and had watched as it withered away—shriveled and died, just because she had unknowingly willed it to. It was a curse from her grandfather, her mother had said; her mother did not speak of Dhumin with any kind of affection, and Aubergine learned not to press.
She walks the forest, her sage-green eyes—just like her father’s—scanning upwards to the orange and red leaves and the sky that peaks from behind them. It is then that she hears voices—are they in her head or being spoken out loud?—and her small ears flick forward, her heartbeat quickening with hope. She rounds the corner to find two colts, maybe a little older than her, or perhaps just taller, and she feels a sudden wave of shyness.
“Um...hi,” she says to them, stepping further into the open, her green eyes glittering and uncertain. “I...I forgot someone might actually live here.” She can feel her cheeks flushing warm, remembering now that her mother had warned her that not everyone was fond of strangers waltzing across their borders, not even innocent young girls. “My name is Aubergine,” she offers, hoping that an introduction might make up for her rude intrusion.
@[Herrin]