06-04-2021, 06:29 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.
She comes from a family of fighters.
It’s not because they’re fond of war — though the body she wears now suggests that she’s bred for it, with thickly-coiled muscles and straight lines — but because they’ve had to learn how to fight for what is good in their lives. Her mother, her father, her brothers, and maybe even her lost twin girls. They all have things they’re trying to protect in this world. They also have things they’re trying to destroy.
The ferocity of her family comes naturally to Wishbone. She fell easily into the path of a fighter at a young age, perhaps too easily. Ambition and determination and obstinacy — they have been friends of hers from the moment of her first breath. They scarred her knees on the black volcanic rock when she tried to climb the monument before her first birthday. They taught her many lessons when she called herself Khaleesi before she was ready. They drowned her in the northern ocean, they wore holes into the Afterlife’s soil, they made her dig for Svedka’s body until she couldn’t move another inch.
Ambition and determination and obstinacy — they push her to increase her stride and match the stranger’s, the one born from a family of runners.
One of her dark ears twists toward the stranger as they race, and she watches from the corner of her eye as the shadows spring toward her like living things. Wishbone has seen the shadows move like this before, during the eclipse and with far darker intentions, but something in the patterns of the shadows suggests they are different. They charge across her skin, whisper against her heels, and wind up her back. Her skin prickles at the sensation, at the potential for danger, but her lips crack in a reckless smile.
Wishbone feels the effects of the sprint in the way her muscles burn and her skin foams with sweat. She doesn’t shy away from the feeling but pushes into it. Her pent-up anger feeds her, giving her exhaustion a purpose, and she tosses her head with shadows twisting across her ears. Her legs beg her to slow down, but suddenly there’s a white-hot burst of speed and energy. She uses it to increase her stride, to put herself slightly ahead of the stranger, and she mentally pulls herself closer to the thing providing the extra resources.
More, her body seems to say to the shadows, give me more and see how long we can go.
It’s not because they’re fond of war — though the body she wears now suggests that she’s bred for it, with thickly-coiled muscles and straight lines — but because they’ve had to learn how to fight for what is good in their lives. Her mother, her father, her brothers, and maybe even her lost twin girls. They all have things they’re trying to protect in this world. They also have things they’re trying to destroy.
The ferocity of her family comes naturally to Wishbone. She fell easily into the path of a fighter at a young age, perhaps too easily. Ambition and determination and obstinacy — they have been friends of hers from the moment of her first breath. They scarred her knees on the black volcanic rock when she tried to climb the monument before her first birthday. They taught her many lessons when she called herself Khaleesi before she was ready. They drowned her in the northern ocean, they wore holes into the Afterlife’s soil, they made her dig for Svedka’s body until she couldn’t move another inch.
Ambition and determination and obstinacy — they push her to increase her stride and match the stranger’s, the one born from a family of runners.
One of her dark ears twists toward the stranger as they race, and she watches from the corner of her eye as the shadows spring toward her like living things. Wishbone has seen the shadows move like this before, during the eclipse and with far darker intentions, but something in the patterns of the shadows suggests they are different. They charge across her skin, whisper against her heels, and wind up her back. Her skin prickles at the sensation, at the potential for danger, but her lips crack in a reckless smile.
Wishbone feels the effects of the sprint in the way her muscles burn and her skin foams with sweat. She doesn’t shy away from the feeling but pushes into it. Her pent-up anger feeds her, giving her exhaustion a purpose, and she tosses her head with shadows twisting across her ears. Her legs beg her to slow down, but suddenly there’s a white-hot burst of speed and energy. She uses it to increase her stride, to put herself slightly ahead of the stranger, and she mentally pulls herself closer to the thing providing the extra resources.
More, her body seems to say to the shadows, give me more and see how long we can go.
@[firion]