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“The poets leave hell and again behold the stars.”
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Dec 28, 2014 23:04:06 GMT -5
Post by ⋆Ravɛn on Dec 28, 2014 23:04:06 GMT -5
M A T R I DLike I said you know I'm almost dead, You know I'm almost gone.
*The cold was vicious, tearing into her pelt as if it physically had claws. Matrid did not know how long she had wandered now, without a home, without a purpose. On and on she went, head bent against the screaming wind, eyes squinted in her attempt to see. In each place that she left paw prints, the heavily falling snow wiped it away shortly later. She was cold, so cold, and numb from the inside out. Despite the way her tender paw pads throbbed, or the icicles that clung to her fur, she continued on, her mind eerily silent for once. How long had it been since she'd been happy, truly? The thought should have evoked something in her; pain, anger, longing, anything. Instead it brought nothing but emptiness.
She knew that shelter should have been her priority then. There was a chance of a blizzard it seemed, and she would not live through it, not when her strength was diminished. She was thinner than she had ever been, her fur dull and dusky, her eyes strangely devoid of emotion. She was drained, completely, and no longer did she care to try. She had not even been able to return to Irrsin. She'd arrived, she'd called for them, and then moments later she had fled. She had been terrified of what they would think of her, skinny and pathetic and completely broken. She didn't wish to burden them, not if they were flourishing again. How dare she bring the death and rot that ate away at her upon their very doorstep?
So consumed was she by here thoughts that she did not realize she'd crossed a border. The snow lightened just slightly as she passed beneath a canopy of bare trees, the limbs naked but at least some form of shelter. On she went, deeper and deeper into Durkell, head bent still against the storm. There was nothing around her now but the wind and the uncomfortable feeling that something was off, but she could not place it. Her instincts seemed desperate to warn her, but it had been so long since she had listened to herself. Agitated, she began to move quicker, sinking slightly into the snow with each step. the storm. Keep going,” her mind whispered to her, treacherously. She would not survive if she continued, not for long, and yet she did. It was as if her legs had a mind of their own now, working almost mechanically as she wandered across the claimed territory. * And when the boatman comes to ferry me away, To where we all belong.tagged: »Image
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