06-27-2021, 11:18 AM
nothing looks the same.
this is a different place – with different trees and different winds coming off strange oceans divided by different worlds. it is moss-worn, overgrown. heavy and heady, even with the early-dawn moon waxing gibbous; she, that offers only silver echoes of herself as the night's gobbling shadows retreat.
she toils in restive ways to untie herself from what she had known and would never again. works to shake it loose like fur in the morning, and how could it still cling to her, that old stale air, the gauntness of it? the embalmed darkness that held no end but instead a forever?
dawn deepens to day;
aėrith loses herself, now, in this lurching, winding labyrinth. she treads around tight corners and yawning paths. even from here, the roofs above reek of chickenshit; even from here, she can hear the wildlings heckle the flightless as much as their own familiars, establishing communication, location, and connection in shrill yips and barks of bravado.
slips of ghosts already accompanied her pilgrimage in phantom kisses at her hips to hurry her along, and words whispered to ears that only half-listen; and she had half the heart to forsake it all. to consign them to whichever forgotten realm she had been ferried from. to the delicate and unlovely bones of her memory.
( you remember them.
you also forget them. )
for a heartbeat, storms pass over her eyes, and her brows pinch together in something hard and bitter. forlorn. but to be fatigued would be to lay this search to rest before she had even begun. then she emerges, finally; sees the sprawling entrails of those aged roots. overgrown and overwhelming; consuming its own heart away to this very ... well, what-ever where she is is.
the line of her mouth thins in the mornlight;
and was all too familiar to that feeling.
this is a different place – with different trees and different winds coming off strange oceans divided by different worlds. it is moss-worn, overgrown. heavy and heady, even with the early-dawn moon waxing gibbous; she, that offers only silver echoes of herself as the night's gobbling shadows retreat.
she toils in restive ways to untie herself from what she had known and would never again. works to shake it loose like fur in the morning, and how could it still cling to her, that old stale air, the gauntness of it? the embalmed darkness that held no end but instead a forever?
dawn deepens to day;
aėrith loses herself, now, in this lurching, winding labyrinth. she treads around tight corners and yawning paths. even from here, the roofs above reek of chickenshit; even from here, she can hear the wildlings heckle the flightless as much as their own familiars, establishing communication, location, and connection in shrill yips and barks of bravado.
slips of ghosts already accompanied her pilgrimage in phantom kisses at her hips to hurry her along, and words whispered to ears that only half-listen; and she had half the heart to forsake it all. to consign them to whichever forgotten realm she had been ferried from. to the delicate and unlovely bones of her memory.
( you remember them.
you also forget them. )
for a heartbeat, storms pass over her eyes, and her brows pinch together in something hard and bitter. forlorn. but to be fatigued would be to lay this search to rest before she had even begun. then she emerges, finally; sees the sprawling entrails of those aged roots. overgrown and overwhelming; consuming its own heart away to this very ... well, what-ever where she is is.
the line of her mouth thins in the mornlight;
and was all too familiar to that feeling.
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