12-06-2021, 07:52 AM
[narrow width=800]
she likes to think that she has ridden herself from those tundrian gods. that she had tugged and torn at the threads of fate woven for 'til they had unseamed and they had had no choice but to take notice; seen how she had slipped from their command and how she had taken that aftermath. yet as the montane, mist-laden reaches shakes itself loose in the early, blue-bruised dawn, even as she leaves cloudrest behind, the nightingale knows that she will never be free of them.
or they of her.
breath does little to help in making room within her; for expelling and cleansing. but she takes one anyways, and soon sets down an unworn path; pressing her way through the dead foxtail grasses, taking in the old moss plied heavy upon legs of branch and squat stone as she wanders ever further.
to where, to what, to who, she does not know; but what she does know is that the ache remains as real as the great marring she now bore, even after a whole moon after asamir's recovery; and she knows whatever had been in the salve that the dark mistress had tended to her with might very well be up here. truth be told, though, toting around the ravaged thing that'd become the half of her face almost felt like ...coming home.
half-sight neverminded;
it's just as missed, too.[/narrow]
@Antares ♡ staying vague just in case since idk how the previous thread will play out
she likes to think that she has ridden herself from those tundrian gods. that she had tugged and torn at the threads of fate woven for 'til they had unseamed and they had had no choice but to take notice; seen how she had slipped from their command and how she had taken that aftermath. yet as the montane, mist-laden reaches shakes itself loose in the early, blue-bruised dawn, even as she leaves cloudrest behind, the nightingale knows that she will never be free of them.
or they of her.
breath does little to help in making room within her; for expelling and cleansing. but she takes one anyways, and soon sets down an unworn path; pressing her way through the dead foxtail grasses, taking in the old moss plied heavy upon legs of branch and squat stone as she wanders ever further.
to where, to what, to who, she does not know; but what she does know is that the ache remains as real as the great marring she now bore, even after a whole moon after asamir's recovery; and she knows whatever had been in the salve that the dark mistress had tended to her with might very well be up here. truth be told, though, toting around the ravaged thing that'd become the half of her face almost felt like ...coming home.
half-sight neverminded;
it's just as missed, too.[/narrow]
the staff team luvs u