The chill in the air finds her, a shiver racing against the pristine sheer of her body, the hair that has become long and unruly- she is no longer soft and silken; not that it mattered. Reckitt was never one to covet her appearance, though she had a simple beauty about her, it was not something she really saw, it wasn’t of importance in the grand scheme of things. The changes, the changes she did take note of, there was much difference between horses and wolves and she was learning them all first hand. Kitt was not simply an observer, an onlooker, this was all something that was directly occuring to her being. When the wind was still warm and forgiving, the fine hair that covered her was short, smooth, she remembered the way it felt against her once wet nose.
Now, she was entirely different, changed, her body hair was long; thick, coarse even. Internally she wondered what that might feel like now, from the outside, if she could touch or rub herself against the unruly coat.
The first time she had ate grass, what an adventure that had been, how silly she had felt doing it. Her stomach did not ache or roll, she had never had the need unless her gut was upset and now; now she lived off the very plant matter she might have collected in the past. Her meals had become different as Winter bore on, the grass crumbling and becoming brittle, yellow. It did not taste unpleasant, just different, less appealing truthfully, but it wasn’t bad; it was better than nothing. And,o, how she could eat now; what a large stomach to be filled compared to her usual one.
Sometimes, she does not have much else to do, other than dwell on what life was, and what life is now. Perhaps she is still rooted back in Ourania in many ways, just like the pale flowers had grown roots beneath their tangled vines on the edges of the Rift.
A slow sigh leaves her silvered lips, hanging in the absence of other sound, clinging and heavy in her melancholy memorandum. Then the sound of a bird tugs her away from the sorrow pit of pity, movement and a voice, so far they are not yet close enough to decipher. Concern takes her, twisting her pale equus neck, east, west, as her elegant head follows- golden eyes searching for silhouettes. Something familiar makes her skin prickle, familiar and not familiar at all; spectres haunted her sleep, could this be a waking dream?
Figures make the voices real, tangible things she might touch, though she does not reach out to the mare the draws closer, her speckled body and pitch colored feathers, both things Reckitt does not know. Am I alright?
Would it be wrong to say no, what if she admitted she wasn’t sure what alright meant anymore?
Corrdelia, Hāsta. Those names, they are things that she knows, remembers from before, and a pit settles in her stomach; a pitted rock that was porous. Kitt takes a step back, at first, allowing the titles to sink in, to settle, but her mind is racing ferociously, her thoughts jumbled and volatile.
A step forward this time, her voice finding her and she manages to speak, cherub tones that have not changed from one body to the next. “Corrdelia? Corrdelia Maude?” Kitt leans in, nostrils flaring, trying to scent the woman with her equine nose, it was lacking and undeniably futile, it wasn’t the same as the keen snout she once had.
“It’s Reckitt..” her name is broken as she tells it, tears roll silently against her pristine cheeks, happy and sad all at once.
@Corrdelia oh you, you are the best <3
