made in the projects
slave to my progress
slave to my progress
She picks her way across the canyon with all the ease of a snake.
There is no part of Solterra she has not yet explored. Elatus is no exception - young as she is, O is intimate with the sand and the rocks and the tough, scrubby brush as much as she is with the inside of her mother’s tower. It is winter, but not cold. Still the sun leers over Solterra with bright teeth and a brighter stare, turning red to gold and gold to white and splicing little shards of light to sparkle in Apolonia’s gaze like so many stars. It is difficult to see against so much glare; she ducks her head and shakes her mane over her eyes to filter it more, with little avail.
No matter. A cactus wren, swathed in pale gold and deep, cool brown, goes darting past her shoulder and turns to dive down into the canyons with a little twitter of of a dare, sharp and sweet as any song.
O takes off after it.
Nimble and fearless, she leaps down the first ledge, lands with a thump, and without a moment’s pause goes tearing along the edges of the canyon, following the bird’s flight path. Now it is twirling and dipping in the air, as if to tease her; she snorts, the noise of derision cut early by her shortness of breath, and goes plunging after the wren with a renewed vigor. Her hooves crack against the striated rock. Its drumbeat matches the pounding of her heart against her chest and the blood pulsing in her ears and, oh, she is alive, running just fast enough to prove it -
She thinks of her father, and unwittingly slows.
Her heart twists in pain a little, physically tenuous for the way it wrenches her of her confidence. If only here were time to grieve - but no, her home is on fire, and her mother, too - and even as she slows to a crawl at the bottom of the canyon, swallowed now by the obelisks of the surrounding walls, what little part of her wants to cry is distracted by the snake-like figure emerging from the dark of a nearby cave. She raises her head indignantly, and though she continues toward him, it is not without a great measure of suspicion and a practiced twirl of the axe at her side.
It’s not snooping if I live here, O responds resentfully. She comes to an abrupt stop and looks him over like she would a new weapon, a piece of clothing up for sale - something that warrants careful consideration of worthiness. There is nothing special about him, she thinks, almost mournfully, but for the phosphoresce of his skin dialed into little scales.
And the way he cannot seem to recover from the sight of her eye.
Often she forgets about it. It is no more to her than a birthmark, or a freckle; beyond that, it is so often hidden by her hair that no one generally notices, but it is now that she realizes her run has split her forelock and revealed the bright curve of her eye. She cannot help but sneer at him a little, both disappointed and unsurprised at his reaction. I’m just passing through -
O glances somewhat boredly at the cave behind him, noting the trinkets, the feathers, the tiny temples of bones. Really, she says, though it is not quite a question. Her voice is even and unconcerned. It seems like you have a nice little camp set up.
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