[AW] the stars failed to guide me home;

[Isra]

He is young, she thinks. Young enough to believe in the power of his spirit and in the magic of the earth. There is something heartbreaking to watch such a horse believe the world is not such a terrible place. It tears at her soul, shatters it and taunts her that this is what she might have been in another life, another world. Looking at him and the lack of scars and sorrow staining his skin she thinks perhaps there are boys that are not yet monsters, not yet full of a lust and sin and stain. Isra feels ancient watching him, too old for the mere four years she has known. It is the part of her that has survived demons and devils and dragon-fire that finally closes the distance between them. She reaches out with her nose, offering the gentlest of touches. Her knees sway like a willow branch for her body remembers how to survive, how to run, but that soul of hers remembers only how to bend and bow. Her heart wants to believe enough for the smallest of smiles, bitter yet gentle, to brighten the dark skin of her face. “The biggest things are those that fall the hardest and the fastest when the world starts to turn.” Isra whispers, turning away from him after just that single offering of her nose to his skin. Upon her head that horn flashes in the light that beats hot and sure between the thick branches. She doesn't move far away from him, only a step, before she turns back with a sad sort of look. “Will you walk further up the path with me?” Ahead the statues that wait to be discovered broken and dusted call to her with promise. The air feels heavy enough to become a dark hero and the ground wild enough with those trembles to become a villain. Isra feels as if they are living in a tale that once she might have only dared to dream. It feels as if Novus has become a thing of dreaming and nightmares (full of devils and gods, seas and sands) that promise an end and mortals that hide tooth and claw behind palace walls. She wonders what the stallion at her back might be, what part he might play in such a place. For a moment, no more than the blink of an eye, her smile is a light, tender thing. For a moment she's lost in the story and she changes quicker than the tides from sorrow to cautious wonder. He could get whiplash from her and the way she's never sure what this skin of hers might say and do, what thing her soul and heart might demand of her. “I will trade you courage for a story if you join me. I could tell you about things that are older than the hills.” She turns away then and her chain rattles with rust and brine like a melody of magic. Her tail drags across the dust and leaves a trail. It dances in the light with an almost sort of magic, as if to say come, come this way. And if he follows, if he stands close enough to her shoulder her might her hear her whisper. “I am Isra.” He might hear the way she says her name, soft and slow as if she needs to remind herself who she is. She whispers as if she needs to remember like the stars whisper glitz through the night to remember that they are not yet fallen and forgotten. Luckily in the end he doesn't follow and she's left whispering her name without a story to herself. * * * * * there are monsters in this skin of mine @Jericho