[ Post a Response | Desreal ]
Posted by isadore. on March 23, 2009, 7:44 am
112.141.87.250
It spilled from her. Rising and fall across her back, down her thighs, up her neck. With every breath the water waves. It pulls against every muscle, finds itself in every crevice – which were many in the small bony foal. This is what Isadore watches. Beryl eyes piercing with her element, they glimmer, and spark as the water swarms her, and drenches her burning orange body.
Her pink and white lips are pursed together. They are only dark lines in the stark apron of her face that is dished and curved. Nothing but those bleeding hazel eyes (that gleam their bright green), show resemblance to her linage. Because she was carved form the sand and storm, Isadore was. Her legs are fine and lanky, much more concavity in every shape and curve - curves that were not so exaggerated in a regular body. But this creates more folds as her skin stretches over an angular skeleton, and the water clings in it.
The water is usually feverish over her body, familiar with being evaporated straight from her flesh. But not now, now it lingers and falls with her breathing (a second pulse of her heart sent through the liquid). Isadore closes her eyes for a moment in the water, before stepping out of the river.
It follows her, as one would expect, as her steps are long and slow. The only thing Isadore had was her mother, and so she was the only thing waiting back in the desert for her.
Isadore furrows her brow for a moment, an expression that simples in the face of the Viper Princess, and pulls at her gaunt cheeks.
Stopping, only a few steps from the river, Isadore turns around, to, through an already thick white tuft of fringe, at the water that was crawling hurriedly from the river, to curl into puddles at her hooves.
“You belong here,”
Her voice is curt to the water, and her ears swerve backwards.
“You can’t come to the desert.”
There is a strange tremor in her lips and it repeats in her eyes.
“It’s, it’s not your home,”
Isadore’s voice is breathy, and this tenseness that rode through her jutting shoulders fades, and the silver bay drops her head, to let the water clamber through her mouth and nose.
isadore
From the burnt sands.
H y p a t i a x S t e r l i n g
And the flooded lands.
8
Message Thread:
« Back to thread