[ Post a Response | Desreal ]
Posted by isadore. on March 27, 2009, 1:37 am, in reply to "love, from a survivor. --"
112.141.86.167
The idea of familiars is not strange to the hazel green girl, who stares from the child (who she can smell the blood of), to the hound at his knees, and keeps plain look on her face, if anything, an arch of startle in their wideness. Because she didn’t know anyone was there.
Nostrils trembling, is the main movement that hits the silver bay body of Isadore, who is small and fine, in a different way, a considerably less fragile way. Although she is not much taller than the colt, who stands there, with the voice that burns in her brain, and makes her feel flushed, tighten her lips. What seemed to be his happiness, she was resentful of, and suddenly it burns in her young eyes, and she hates her water, as it trickles from her and crawls towards the dog, whose hushed growl doesn’t bother her.
Isadore is strangely still, even when Loki touches her. Her bright eyes look down where his muzzle is against her, and presses against her flaming russet body. The girl stays that way, under he whispers to her, and his voice hums into the pace that the blood was rushing under the surface. Isadore - who should be the Viper princess who, because of the water and elements, is not – responds in a small voice. When she speaks, it’s like putting the smallest babushka doll in the biggest one, without the ones in the middle, and rattling it around. That’s her voice, the smallest babushka doll, and all she feels she has is that one outer shell. She’s missing all the insides, to buffer her against the walls as she whispers,
“I can’t,”
She doesn’t understand the language he speaks, but she knows what he says, and after that, she closes her eyes, and mutters, almost in an inaudible whimper,
“Where would you take me?”
slightly more emotional now, Isadore opens her eyes, and tells him,
“I only have my mother… and, and the desert,”
She breaks and pulls a pink and white mouth away from his body, currently, of holes and blood,
“So, so I can’t,”
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.
7
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