Post by Astryd Clarayone on Sept 23, 2014 12:51:44 GMT -6
Winter was fast approaching.
As the world curled inward, pulling itself into the quiet death of winter - the slow end of one season fading into another - the world spun chaotically upon it's wheel. Anger would release it's venomous wrath through the vicious foliage and gnarled branches. Death was waiting on the other side, silently stalking it's living game.
Pain slipped into the hearts of the earth. Pain and despair wrapped it's thick, slimy tendrils around the bases of the trees, pulling them desperately down into it's deadly, cold grip. She sensed it, her hide spasming in pockets - nerves jumping underneath skin as adrenaline shot up to it's top. It whispered nervousness into her ears, but she steadied herself evenly. The world was not so kind - fool would dare only to tread carelessly.
Astryd moved slowly, eyes glued carefully upon this world. Trees battled each other, spun tightly in their daring embrace. Hooves snapped at wryly roots, whose arms might date clasp frantically at her. Though they bothered only amongst themselves, she warily understood that they held no skittisness to involve her in their plights. Fear froze her heart, slowing it's beat into rhythmic, carefully placed chimes. It's chilled her bones.
Indignantly, thick nostrils piled steam from their tips into the air. A sharp sound of frustration slipped from her lips, dissipating into the air. The thicket shouldn't welcome her too warmly, but carefully placed within it's grasp, she would clamor safely to the other side. Where the dance of her own feet feel along to the side of the aggressive, restless plants.
Powerful trunks shot this way and that, roots climbing out of the ground, before disappearing back in. They sewed dangerous patterns across the lively earth, losing the midnight hued horse within their wake.
Life had her attention. The need for survival in a world fighting for reason. She only needed to live - to see tomorrow, live again, and to repeat. Lost in her own chaotic spin, lost to her vicious cycle. Once in a while, when winds tickled her nose with the smell of old carrion, she pondered just where her father was. What, in this barren world they called home - or more accurately, called Life - was he possibly up to?
