[private] Chaos and Whimsy; Tumult

[Tipitina]

She moves along the riverbank, silver hooves pressing into soft mud that smells faintly of rain and stone. The current whispers at her ankles, cold and deliberate, brushing against her skin in tiny, teasing pulses. Her patchwork coat glimmers faintly in the pale light, neon streaks of her mane catching every ripple of sunlight like sparks caught in fog. Her antennae quiver at each faint shift in the air, her elongated ears tilting toward every subtle splash, every soft rustle of reeds.

“Tumult?” The name slips softly from her lips, carried over the water like a secret she hopes he will catch. Lilies bloom slowly from her chest, petals trembling as though sensing her intent. Green foxfire curls around her legs, twirling with each careful step. The butterfly wings on her hindquarters shimmer faintly, fluttering with the rhythm of her heartbeat.

Her mind flickers back to the last time she had seen him, the weight of his presence, the pull she had not understood, the quiet tension that had made her chest ache in ways she could not name. She lets the memory brush against her now, a reminder of why she moves forward, why she calls.

The reeds shift in the gentle breeze, the river hissing against stones, and her antennae twitch at the faintest vibration. The pull in her chest strengthens, subtle but insistent, like a ship caught in a sudden storm, tugged toward something it cannot resist. Her heart beats steady, a warm coil of anticipation that dances beneath her skin, winding around the lilies, the foxfire, and the quiet hum of magic she has learned to trust.

@Tumult
This is bleh lol

[Tumult]

T U M U L T

He thinks of her, which is a peculiar thing for him.

It has been years now since he last accidentally landed here, and his path has crossed with enough that if anyone was going to hold his attention he assumed it would have happened by now. He thinks, sometimes, of the other storm mare—the one who could do all of the things he could not, and he had trouble deciphering if he was infatuated or envious of her—but other than that every one leaves his mind nearly as quickly as they had come.

He finds himself returning to the meadow often; lying to himself, saying it is because it is the most common place to frequent, and pretending as though he is not hoping to catch sight of those bright strands of hair.

Today, he chances a walk upriver, seeking a change of scenery, or something else to distract him from his ever-wandering thoughts. He did not expect to find her here, though he does recall what she had said about her homeland, and thinks that there is a chance she would be drawn to the water.

He did not expect to hear his name, and the sound of it is like an electric current through the air, a thunderbolt hitting its mark as the lightning on his skin seems to flash faster in response to the sudden quickening of his pulse.

He turns his storm-cloud head to seek the source of the voice—familiar, just as he had remembered it—but the image he finds does not match the one that has been in his head. The glowing fox fire catches his attention first, the way it winds up her legs, and from there his eyes find the mark on her chest, and then the vivid wings. She is changed, in ways that he can sense are not just physical, and he can feel a knot of worry forming behind his ribcage.

Her eyes are the same though, a softer gray than his, and that same shimmering aura that seemed to radiate from within.

“Beqanna’s magic has found you,” he observes, voice quiet, trying to disguise the sliver of worry that rests alongside his admiration. He knew that such things often came at a price, and he only hoped whatever she paid, it had not been painful. He steps towards her, storm-cloud wings and their slow-dripping rain at his sides, his eyes searching her face imploringly before asking her, “what happened?”

CAN YOU TELL ME, WILL I BREAK OR WILL I BEND?

@Tipitina