Lightning laughs, choosing her tree
Popinjay isn't one of them, but she comes anyway, drawn by the fire and the smoke and the whirl of panic and rage. The old burn scars on her flank itch at the sight of the charred earth, at the soot that dulls their coats and their spirits, and navigating between the exhaustion and the grief that winds through the air like wreaths of smoke, she is an odd, laughing creature. In her fickle heart, she is disappointed to have missed the fray, she feeds off the chaos of the storm and all that remains is this drizzle and this mournful howl of wind. Taiga drowns itself in salt and smoke and Nerine is thick with defeat, and she came too slow, too late, her muscles still weary and recovering from the post-partum sickness that trapped her away in the Pampas for so long.
She bears no feathers today, neither in her hair nor those tremendous black-and-red wings that let her soar the heavens. She is sick of the sight of them after months of watching the feathers grow dull with age and the abuse of mouthy, curious, sometimes beaked, children chewing at their once-stiff edges. She does not wear them today; instead is her old self, small and dark and a little wild. Instead, she has traded in her feathers for a sparkling cape of electricity and savors the tingle of it across her skin. Lightning crackles in the curls of her mane and the painted magician's rains fizz and hiss as they fall upon her. Dark lips quirk into a puckish grin. Popinjay comes upon the Nerinians in a flash of bright teeth and laughing eyes.
Two faces are immediately familiar to her, even though the seal-dark bay has never found time to speak with the glowing goatboy - Nashua's twin, she can taste the anger that ripples in waves across his face. Even though she has never bothered to remember the chestnut mare's name. Familiar because they are not Nerinians at all. It makes no difference, all four horses act defeated, as if they've lost, somehow, and Poppy snorts loudly when her springing steps bring her well into the group, diving in, demanding attention that no-one else has had the courage to claim. They are soft - so soft - so quiet and dismal and drab, all the things she has despised for so long.
(All the things she was for so long, in the southern flowered fields, and the memory makes her sneer for just the briefest moment. Popinjay will raze the Pampas to the ground if she ever steps foot in it again. Grasslands do not love lightning.)
"Sad, sad, sad. You all look lost," she aims a careless nip at the red mare's torn flame, "What have you lost? Your dullness? Nerine has been sleeping for too long. Time to wake up."
Ghaul had not been wrong, she thinks, but will their insipid souls be able to see it?
She bears no feathers today, neither in her hair nor those tremendous black-and-red wings that let her soar the heavens. She is sick of the sight of them after months of watching the feathers grow dull with age and the abuse of mouthy, curious, sometimes beaked, children chewing at their once-stiff edges. She does not wear them today; instead is her old self, small and dark and a little wild. Instead, she has traded in her feathers for a sparkling cape of electricity and savors the tingle of it across her skin. Lightning crackles in the curls of her mane and the painted magician's rains fizz and hiss as they fall upon her. Dark lips quirk into a puckish grin. Popinjay comes upon the Nerinians in a flash of bright teeth and laughing eyes.
Two faces are immediately familiar to her, even though the seal-dark bay has never found time to speak with the glowing goatboy - Nashua's twin, she can taste the anger that ripples in waves across his face. Even though she has never bothered to remember the chestnut mare's name. Familiar because they are not Nerinians at all. It makes no difference, all four horses act defeated, as if they've lost, somehow, and Poppy snorts loudly when her springing steps bring her well into the group, diving in, demanding attention that no-one else has had the courage to claim. They are soft - so soft - so quiet and dismal and drab, all the things she has despised for so long.
(All the things she was for so long, in the southern flowered fields, and the memory makes her sneer for just the briefest moment. Popinjay will raze the Pampas to the ground if she ever steps foot in it again. Grasslands do not love lightning.)
"Sad, sad, sad. You all look lost," she aims a careless nip at the red mare's torn flame, "What have you lost? Your dullness? Nerine has been sleeping for too long. Time to wake up."
Ghaul had not been wrong, she thinks, but will their insipid souls be able to see it?
#helping