10-02-2021, 10:40 PM
Again and again, she finds herself here. One violet eye awakens to darkness - which, in and of itself is not unusual (the nights are fitful in Tephra,) but there's a flavor on the air that tastes too familiar. Something decidedly not pomegranate-y.
She wakes, as she does so often, at the edge of something, and the bright red of her beating heart, lit by the glowing blades of her bones, twists and thuds in her breast. It keens softly for a sense of peace and of comfort that it has never known even as it tugs her into that horrid darkness.
Sintra barely warrants a costume, but something foreign clasps tight around her face, something flat and leathery covering the bare hole of the eye the vulture stole. A red sash ties itself around her waist with a dull-bladed sword tucked against her flank and a too-large, too-itchy beard wraps beneath her chin and swings in the breeze. There's a tri-corner hat with a jolly roger brand and, finally - and seemingly from nowhere - a brightly colored parrot settles itself on her withers, its sharp nails digging her heat-shimmer skin.
More bemused than bewildered, the little roan flicks a worried ear back and steps into the forest. The trees seem to bend around her, their fingers grasping at her mane and her tail and running across her skin as if to test it; as if perhaps she is as soap-bubble fragile as she appears. Every step is accompanied by the parrot's merry noise and inane commentary.
"RAWK! HELLO! WHERE'S THE RUM? RAWK! *microwave beep* HELLO! WALK THE PLANK! *cat meow fart noise*"
She wakes, as she does so often, at the edge of something, and the bright red of her beating heart, lit by the glowing blades of her bones, twists and thuds in her breast. It keens softly for a sense of peace and of comfort that it has never known even as it tugs her into that horrid darkness.
Sintra barely warrants a costume, but something foreign clasps tight around her face, something flat and leathery covering the bare hole of the eye the vulture stole. A red sash ties itself around her waist with a dull-bladed sword tucked against her flank and a too-large, too-itchy beard wraps beneath her chin and swings in the breeze. There's a tri-corner hat with a jolly roger brand and, finally - and seemingly from nowhere - a brightly colored parrot settles itself on her withers, its sharp nails digging her heat-shimmer skin.
More bemused than bewildered, the little roan flicks a worried ear back and steps into the forest. The trees seem to bend around her, their fingers grasping at her mane and her tail and running across her skin as if to test it; as if perhaps she is as soap-bubble fragile as she appears. Every step is accompanied by the parrot's merry noise and inane commentary.
"RAWK! HELLO! WHERE'S THE RUM? RAWK! *microwave beep* HELLO! WALK THE PLANK! *cat meow fart noise*"