02-23-2021, 06:41 PM
it's a mystery to me
we have a greed with which we have agreed. you think you have to want more than you need; until you have it all you won't be free. and when you think more than you want, your thoughts begin to bleed.
One shadow becomes two, and two become five, and Wishbone feels her skin prickle with apprehension. The darkness has a practiced way of playing tricks on the eyes, creating phantoms and ghosts. Where light would have scared away the illusions, the eclipse invites them to run rampant. Wishbone has seen many things in the dark, and the eclipse has married her dreams to reality. Svedka’s pale face appears beneath the glow of a Tephran bird, a large rock becomes her twin daughters, a twisting shadow becomes Wolfbane’s spinal mane walking through the jungle.
Wishbone’s amber eyes follow the wispy shapes as they wind among the redwood trunks. Her dark ears press into the knots of her mane as they loom closer. And just as they get too close and she is about to drag a bone from the soil, she hears Lilliana’s voice. As if answering a call, the shadows pull themselves together to form the red mare pushing through the darkness. Wishbone relaxes under the familiarity of Lilliana, even though the mare’s clear blue gaze is guarded.
The way the shadows had shifted reminds Wishbone of the monster (Ivar had seemed to appear from the darkness similarly as if the shadows had carried and birthed him). Yet that monster hadn’t spoken, even when it had bitten Mazikeen and engulfed Wishbone’s torso in its unhinged jaws. So the purple pangare eases under this assumption, and she relaxes her grip on the bones that lie beneath the ground.
It seems their friendship is bursting with difficult conversations. “Lilliana, it’s me, Wishbone.” She hopes the characteristic sound of her voice will help plead her case — a childhood in Tephra had gifted her a tune from the ashes while her femininity adds a dose of honey to the whisky. Her amber eyes remain on her blue-eyed friend, even while she takes a shaky breath. “There’s something about my life I didn’t tell you on the volcano. If you have the time, I’d like to share it now.”
Wishbone’s amber eyes follow the wispy shapes as they wind among the redwood trunks. Her dark ears press into the knots of her mane as they loom closer. And just as they get too close and she is about to drag a bone from the soil, she hears Lilliana’s voice. As if answering a call, the shadows pull themselves together to form the red mare pushing through the darkness. Wishbone relaxes under the familiarity of Lilliana, even though the mare’s clear blue gaze is guarded.
The way the shadows had shifted reminds Wishbone of the monster (Ivar had seemed to appear from the darkness similarly as if the shadows had carried and birthed him). Yet that monster hadn’t spoken, even when it had bitten Mazikeen and engulfed Wishbone’s torso in its unhinged jaws. So the purple pangare eases under this assumption, and she relaxes her grip on the bones that lie beneath the ground.
It seems their friendship is bursting with difficult conversations. “Lilliana, it’s me, Wishbone.” She hopes the characteristic sound of her voice will help plead her case — a childhood in Tephra had gifted her a tune from the ashes while her femininity adds a dose of honey to the whisky. Her amber eyes remain on her blue-eyed friend, even while she takes a shaky breath. “There’s something about my life I didn’t tell you on the volcano. If you have the time, I’d like to share it now.”
@[lilliana]