11-03-2015, 12:32 AM
At one point in her life, Etro had thought she had constellations trapped in her breast.
She had spent her nights sleeping under the vast, impossible, infinite sky of the Deserts kingdom and had imagined that those same nebulas swam in her veins and expanded across her chest—that she was nothing but stardust and the echoes of centuries past. But such dreams were for children, and she was no longer a child. Her eyes had seen her mother break down before her. She had felt the illness of a kingdom that could not keep her (a kingdom that did not want her). She had felt the settling dust of understanding when she learned that the metallic tang that hung around Kingslay was that of life taken—not borrowed, not given.
Reality had a harsh, cruel edge, and she had the scars to prove it.
So when Etro walks through the meadow tonight, her steps are slow, and she takes care to skirt around the edges of the gathering groups where her powers may extend. She does not fully understand just what her trait negation means, but she has seen magic fight to pierce the veil around her, and she has seen Kingslay’s raging fire reduced to smoldering ashes in her presence. Whatever she was, she smothered; she was not the stars—she was a black hole. She swallowed the magic of anything near enough to her.
In silence, the plain bay mare moves toward a lone tree, coming to rest underneath it, one hip pressing perhaps too hard against the bark. With a sigh, she drops her head, closing her muddy brown eyes to shut out the rest of the world. She was not a creature that was prone to the tempting touch of sadness, but tonight, she feels it: the fingers grabbing onto her heart and squeezing. Tonight, for the first time in perhaps ever, she feels the bite of loneliness.
@[broken]
She had spent her nights sleeping under the vast, impossible, infinite sky of the Deserts kingdom and had imagined that those same nebulas swam in her veins and expanded across her chest—that she was nothing but stardust and the echoes of centuries past. But such dreams were for children, and she was no longer a child. Her eyes had seen her mother break down before her. She had felt the illness of a kingdom that could not keep her (a kingdom that did not want her). She had felt the settling dust of understanding when she learned that the metallic tang that hung around Kingslay was that of life taken—not borrowed, not given.
Reality had a harsh, cruel edge, and she had the scars to prove it.
So when Etro walks through the meadow tonight, her steps are slow, and she takes care to skirt around the edges of the gathering groups where her powers may extend. She does not fully understand just what her trait negation means, but she has seen magic fight to pierce the veil around her, and she has seen Kingslay’s raging fire reduced to smoldering ashes in her presence. Whatever she was, she smothered; she was not the stars—she was a black hole. She swallowed the magic of anything near enough to her.
In silence, the plain bay mare moves toward a lone tree, coming to rest underneath it, one hip pressing perhaps too hard against the bark. With a sigh, she drops her head, closing her muddy brown eyes to shut out the rest of the world. She was not a creature that was prone to the tempting touch of sadness, but tonight, she feels it: the fingers grabbing onto her heart and squeezing. Tonight, for the first time in perhaps ever, she feels the bite of loneliness.
@[broken]