<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Amatic+SC" rel="stylesheet"><div align="center"><div style="border-left:#273a40 3px solid;border-right:#273a40 3px solid;background:#99a3a4;padding:16px 16px 12px 16px;width:500px;"><img src="https://i.pinimg.com/564x/a4/05/47/a40547754bbee4421bf6eea84ca20509.jpg" style="max-width:100%;border:1px solid #000;"><div style="width:500px;line-height:24px;font-family:amatic sc;font-size:50px;margin-left:-4px;text-shadow:#000 2px 0px 2px;color:#273a40;letter-spacing:1px;text-transform:lowercase;text-align:center;">take my soul & make it undone</div><div style="width:450px;padding:12px 4px 12px 4px;font-family:arial;text-transform:uppercase;font-size:9px;line-height:8px;letter-spacing:1px;text-align:center;color:#33454f;">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.</div><div style="font-family:times;font-size:13px;line-height:100%;text-align:justify;color:#273a40;">Two sets of amber eyes peer out from two contrasting faces as the sun’s descent casts long shadows against the sand. Wishbone feels her heart flutter with anticipation and lingering adrenaline. The thrill of wielding ancient bones and saving a life has temporarily melted away her fatigue, leaving behind an electric charge in her blood. The growing darkness cannot hide the flash of zeal that shines in her eyes. It has been too long since she has felt like this — alive — and she revels for a moment in the feelings of exhilaration, liveliness, and simple existence.
<i>“Craft.”</i> Wishbone’s eyes focus on the palomino’s face at the sound. The word is simple enough, but a hidden message feels interwoven with the letters of the mare’s name. The mahogany studies the angles and curves of Craft’s face, searching for the reason why the consonants sound bitter and the vowels sound fiery. Before any more discoveries can be made — about the orange-eyed stallion attempting to murder Craft or about the way one single word seemed laced with mild disgust — the world is swirling around Wishbone once again.
This change in scenery is different from the last few times. Wishbone is aware of her feet remaining firmly planted in the sands of the desert and the sound of the stallion thrashing from behind his bone-cage. The vision dances in front of her like a mirage, illuminated by the final rays of the sunset. Craft has moved to stand next to Wishbone. The mahogany can feel the heat of the other mare radiating off her supple skin, and all of a sudden Wishbone is brutally focused on the fact that this might all be a dream.
Her heart aches at the thought that she might blink her eyes awake to find herself spending another day with the Dead. Everything has been so startingly <i>real</i>, as though she were experiencing it as truly as possible, and she feels a small sense of betrayal at the thought that it might not be. It would be a cruel joke for her to wake up in Death after going through the heartbreak of sacrificing her father, feeling the pain of reliving death, and surviving a vulture attack. The deep ache in her chest blossoms into a fire of anger… She’ll be pissed if none of this is real.
The sound of a soft sigh brings Wishbone’s thoughts swimming back toward the vision. The noise has come from Craft, whose eyes seem to bulge further out of their sockets each moment the mirage shimmers before them. When the Nerinian focuses on the image, she can see why Craft is so drawn to it. The mare from the previous vision (dangling on the edge of a cliff, calling with that heartbroken voice) stands close to the palomino, the deserts bathing them in shades of blue-sky and tanned sands. They remind Wishbone of night and day, woven together like the sweet moments of sunrise and sunset.
Their adoration for each other radiates out of the vision, coating Wishbone in a thick layer of rose-gold and comfort. There is no denying the romance that lies in the few inches that separate the pair and Wishbone imagines the distance feels electric. She can remember the way inches used to feel like miles; in her years of Death, those memories often brought her comfort. They were never memories of Ivar — not simply because he murdered her, but because the affection they shared for one another was rooted in instinct and poorly-controlled passion. No, the sight of Craft and her lover reminds her of a certain golden stallion with eyes illuminated by a hundred cave-dwelling glow-worms.
<b>“I remember that feeling well.”</b> Her voice is soft, the honey-syrup coating over her normal brusque-and-whiskey tune. <b>“Who is she?”</b> The mirage flickers like a dying flame before disappearing completely in the silence that lingers after her question. Craft’s expression is distant, Wishbone notes. She can imagine memories are swarming her, washing over her head like the waves of Ischia drowning the mahogany.
It is only the shredding sound of a distant world opening that brings Craft’s eyes back into focus. <i>“Anatomy.”</i> The name sounds like it has been ripped from the palomino mare’s chest. <i>“We ruled together in the Deserts.”</i> Deserts, a word that Wishbone remembers hearing during her lessons with Scorch. A kingdom of the Old Beqanna, before the world was washed clean.
Just as the oasis had pulled Wishbone closer, the distant portal calls to her. <i>“Bring her back,”</i> it whispers. <i>“Reunite her. Reunite them.”</i> Wherever this new world is, and whatever it looks like, Wishbone is certain that Night and Day can be restored again. Perhaps in this new world, Wolfbane will be waiting for her. She doubts it (there has been too much time between Life and Death for her childhood friend to have waited for her), but she has been wrong before. Wishbone can’t shake the picture of his finely-etched face brightened with a blue-green glow, casting shadows on the hollower pieces of him and highlighting the angle of his cheekbones.
She had been young during that adventure… A teenager discovering how her curves could draw his eyes and the way he made her feel like she was on fire.
<b>“I want you to have that happiness again,”</b> she begins. If Wishbone is never reunited with the golden stallion, she at least wants to give Craft the chance to be with her lover. <b>“There is a place we can go, a portal we can enter. It will bring Anatomy to you, and you to Anatomy.”</b> Deep in her gut Wishbone is certain of her statement, and her determination alights in her amber eyes like the flaming sword of a soldier.
<b>“Even if you don’t want to be reunited with Anatomy, there are chances to have a life in this new place.”</b> Life isn’t always about marriage and romance, Wishbone has discovered. There is much more to each day than waking up and falling asleep with a kiss. The world is a messy, dangerous, and beautiful place. The relationship between Craft and Anatomy is an intricate piece in the world, but it is not the only piece in either Craft or Anatomy’s worlds. <b>“Please, trust me.”</b>
Wishbone’s always been honest and to-the-point; even in convincing Craft, she refrains from giving a speech. <i>“I will try,”</i> Craft says, and Wishbone audibly sighs with relief. The portal is within view — a shimmering haze in the dusky light between two crooked, burnt trees. Even from the distance, Wishbone can see the rainbow of colors dancing across the expanse between the trees.
They have walked only a few feet when Craft tries to turn back. It might be from the sound of the orange-eyed stallion pawing at the bone or perhaps the fear of the unknown. Wishbone isn’t sure of Craft’s reason, but she is determined to keep the palomino on the track toward the portal. So she tells a story.
It is a simple one of her childhood, but as Wishbone reflects she begins to realize how important the adventure became to her. The Nerinian tells the Desert queen about the time she had attempted to summit Tephra’s volcano with Wolfbane. He was still learning how to use his wings at the time, but he remained aloft and zig-zagged through the air as Wishbone grunted, sweat, and sliced her knees upon the rocky face of the volcano. He’d teased her the whole time and she had bantered back, gritting her teeth and shouting “I’m going to ruin your snarky little face!” as he haphazardly managed his balance in the gusty winds. After giving up, they had splashed each other in a freshwater pool lying in the face of the volcano, washing away the sweat and blood from climbing and flying.
Each sentence brings them a few steps closer to the portal and a few steps further away from the stallion. Her words have seemed to melt away the anxiety of their journey, leaving Craft pleasant-eyed and soft-faced. The ending of the story leaves Wishbone feeling uncannily broken… It had only been a memory of her childhood and yet she feels winded from speaking it into existence. As the silence begins to settle over them, Wishbone can see the way Craft thinks of turning around again. So she tells another story.
This one is a memory of her teenage years, the one she can’t get out of her mind. Wishbone and Wolfbane’s swim from a rough Nerine shore into the dark mouth of a cavern etched into the side of the granite cliffs; the way he had followed her bravely through the narrow darkness until they broke into blue-green light; the glow illuminating the features of their growing bodies, casting shadows and highlights in all the right places. Their breaths had been heavy and yet light at the same time, as if on the cusp of breaking into dangerous territory. His olive eyes had captured her in that cave, and she had felt her heart succumb to him that night.
By the time she finishes this story, they have reached the portal. Wishbone feels the sting of tears near the backs of her eyes and she silently curses herself. She shouldn’t be upset about this — her relationship with Wolfbane had been over the moment she had left to explore the Beyond. It had been her own choosing, to disappear as suddenly as she had. She could not blame the golden-and-blue stallion for seeking comfort from other women. But the exhaustion of the day (or the night or the hour or the minute… She isn’t sure at this point) is catching up with her and so the tears remain just behind her eyes, threatening to burst at any moment. <b>“We’re here,”</b> she says throatily. <i>“Indeed we are,”</i> Craft says back.
And with that, they step between the trees.</div></div><center><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></center></div>
<i>“Craft.”</i> Wishbone’s eyes focus on the palomino’s face at the sound. The word is simple enough, but a hidden message feels interwoven with the letters of the mare’s name. The mahogany studies the angles and curves of Craft’s face, searching for the reason why the consonants sound bitter and the vowels sound fiery. Before any more discoveries can be made — about the orange-eyed stallion attempting to murder Craft or about the way one single word seemed laced with mild disgust — the world is swirling around Wishbone once again.
This change in scenery is different from the last few times. Wishbone is aware of her feet remaining firmly planted in the sands of the desert and the sound of the stallion thrashing from behind his bone-cage. The vision dances in front of her like a mirage, illuminated by the final rays of the sunset. Craft has moved to stand next to Wishbone. The mahogany can feel the heat of the other mare radiating off her supple skin, and all of a sudden Wishbone is brutally focused on the fact that this might all be a dream.
Her heart aches at the thought that she might blink her eyes awake to find herself spending another day with the Dead. Everything has been so startingly <i>real</i>, as though she were experiencing it as truly as possible, and she feels a small sense of betrayal at the thought that it might not be. It would be a cruel joke for her to wake up in Death after going through the heartbreak of sacrificing her father, feeling the pain of reliving death, and surviving a vulture attack. The deep ache in her chest blossoms into a fire of anger… She’ll be pissed if none of this is real.
The sound of a soft sigh brings Wishbone’s thoughts swimming back toward the vision. The noise has come from Craft, whose eyes seem to bulge further out of their sockets each moment the mirage shimmers before them. When the Nerinian focuses on the image, she can see why Craft is so drawn to it. The mare from the previous vision (dangling on the edge of a cliff, calling with that heartbroken voice) stands close to the palomino, the deserts bathing them in shades of blue-sky and tanned sands. They remind Wishbone of night and day, woven together like the sweet moments of sunrise and sunset.
Their adoration for each other radiates out of the vision, coating Wishbone in a thick layer of rose-gold and comfort. There is no denying the romance that lies in the few inches that separate the pair and Wishbone imagines the distance feels electric. She can remember the way inches used to feel like miles; in her years of Death, those memories often brought her comfort. They were never memories of Ivar — not simply because he murdered her, but because the affection they shared for one another was rooted in instinct and poorly-controlled passion. No, the sight of Craft and her lover reminds her of a certain golden stallion with eyes illuminated by a hundred cave-dwelling glow-worms.
<b>“I remember that feeling well.”</b> Her voice is soft, the honey-syrup coating over her normal brusque-and-whiskey tune. <b>“Who is she?”</b> The mirage flickers like a dying flame before disappearing completely in the silence that lingers after her question. Craft’s expression is distant, Wishbone notes. She can imagine memories are swarming her, washing over her head like the waves of Ischia drowning the mahogany.
It is only the shredding sound of a distant world opening that brings Craft’s eyes back into focus. <i>“Anatomy.”</i> The name sounds like it has been ripped from the palomino mare’s chest. <i>“We ruled together in the Deserts.”</i> Deserts, a word that Wishbone remembers hearing during her lessons with Scorch. A kingdom of the Old Beqanna, before the world was washed clean.
Just as the oasis had pulled Wishbone closer, the distant portal calls to her. <i>“Bring her back,”</i> it whispers. <i>“Reunite her. Reunite them.”</i> Wherever this new world is, and whatever it looks like, Wishbone is certain that Night and Day can be restored again. Perhaps in this new world, Wolfbane will be waiting for her. She doubts it (there has been too much time between Life and Death for her childhood friend to have waited for her), but she has been wrong before. Wishbone can’t shake the picture of his finely-etched face brightened with a blue-green glow, casting shadows on the hollower pieces of him and highlighting the angle of his cheekbones.
She had been young during that adventure… A teenager discovering how her curves could draw his eyes and the way he made her feel like she was on fire.
<b>“I want you to have that happiness again,”</b> she begins. If Wishbone is never reunited with the golden stallion, she at least wants to give Craft the chance to be with her lover. <b>“There is a place we can go, a portal we can enter. It will bring Anatomy to you, and you to Anatomy.”</b> Deep in her gut Wishbone is certain of her statement, and her determination alights in her amber eyes like the flaming sword of a soldier.
<b>“Even if you don’t want to be reunited with Anatomy, there are chances to have a life in this new place.”</b> Life isn’t always about marriage and romance, Wishbone has discovered. There is much more to each day than waking up and falling asleep with a kiss. The world is a messy, dangerous, and beautiful place. The relationship between Craft and Anatomy is an intricate piece in the world, but it is not the only piece in either Craft or Anatomy’s worlds. <b>“Please, trust me.”</b>
Wishbone’s always been honest and to-the-point; even in convincing Craft, she refrains from giving a speech. <i>“I will try,”</i> Craft says, and Wishbone audibly sighs with relief. The portal is within view — a shimmering haze in the dusky light between two crooked, burnt trees. Even from the distance, Wishbone can see the rainbow of colors dancing across the expanse between the trees.
They have walked only a few feet when Craft tries to turn back. It might be from the sound of the orange-eyed stallion pawing at the bone or perhaps the fear of the unknown. Wishbone isn’t sure of Craft’s reason, but she is determined to keep the palomino on the track toward the portal. So she tells a story.
It is a simple one of her childhood, but as Wishbone reflects she begins to realize how important the adventure became to her. The Nerinian tells the Desert queen about the time she had attempted to summit Tephra’s volcano with Wolfbane. He was still learning how to use his wings at the time, but he remained aloft and zig-zagged through the air as Wishbone grunted, sweat, and sliced her knees upon the rocky face of the volcano. He’d teased her the whole time and she had bantered back, gritting her teeth and shouting “I’m going to ruin your snarky little face!” as he haphazardly managed his balance in the gusty winds. After giving up, they had splashed each other in a freshwater pool lying in the face of the volcano, washing away the sweat and blood from climbing and flying.
Each sentence brings them a few steps closer to the portal and a few steps further away from the stallion. Her words have seemed to melt away the anxiety of their journey, leaving Craft pleasant-eyed and soft-faced. The ending of the story leaves Wishbone feeling uncannily broken… It had only been a memory of her childhood and yet she feels winded from speaking it into existence. As the silence begins to settle over them, Wishbone can see the way Craft thinks of turning around again. So she tells another story.
This one is a memory of her teenage years, the one she can’t get out of her mind. Wishbone and Wolfbane’s swim from a rough Nerine shore into the dark mouth of a cavern etched into the side of the granite cliffs; the way he had followed her bravely through the narrow darkness until they broke into blue-green light; the glow illuminating the features of their growing bodies, casting shadows and highlights in all the right places. Their breaths had been heavy and yet light at the same time, as if on the cusp of breaking into dangerous territory. His olive eyes had captured her in that cave, and she had felt her heart succumb to him that night.
By the time she finishes this story, they have reached the portal. Wishbone feels the sting of tears near the backs of her eyes and she silently curses herself. She shouldn’t be upset about this — her relationship with Wolfbane had been over the moment she had left to explore the Beyond. It had been her own choosing, to disappear as suddenly as she had. She could not blame the golden-and-blue stallion for seeking comfort from other women. But the exhaustion of the day (or the night or the hour or the minute… She isn’t sure at this point) is catching up with her and so the tears remain just behind her eyes, threatening to burst at any moment. <b>“We’re here,”</b> she says throatily. <i>“Indeed we are,”</i> Craft says back.
And with that, they step between the trees.</div></div><center><font style="font-family:times;font-size:10px;color:#000;">credit to <i>eliza</i> of adoxography.</font></center></div>