little pilgrim
the Indian's axed your scalp.
the Indian's axed your scalp.
Elif did not care for the island in the least.
It wasn’t that she shied away from the thought of adventure - she’d always been drawn by it, eager to discover, to test herself in the process. It was that things here were so strange, so different from everything she’d known; the closest thing to it had been Isra’s maze, and she’d only managed to survive that for a matter of minutes.
She had a feeling that the magic here wouldn’t nicely spit her out somewhere safe.
Perhaps it had been a mistake to cut into the forest, especially on her own. The thick cover of trees, the suffocating canopy, the reaching, tripping vines - all of it disoriented her far more than the canyons or the empty expanse of the Mors ever could, and the feeling of claustrophobia was growing. She was a thing made for open skies and rolling dunes, and no matter how carefully she tried to step, branches snagged at her wings and scratched at her sides, and logs and tangles of ferns and flowers tripped at her feet. Here, at least, her short mane and tail were not a drawback. But even the air seemed to press in on her, the humidity of such a verdant place slicking sweat along her sides like no heat she’d known before.
Being so far out of her element had the effect of making her more prickly, more aware. She was as mindful of the whip at her side as she would have been were it a living snake, though after a few hours of reaching for it at every rustle of leaves or snatch of peculiar bird-song she at least let it be now.
She needed to get back to the open. By now she was thoroughly turned around, streaked with dirt and sweat, skin prickling from scrapes with thorns and insect bites. What Elif wanted was a breeze, and a clear view -
just then, the raucous crying of birds called her attention to both. They were screaming like a flock of crows after an owl, harsh and laughing, and she flicked back her ears at the cacophony. She could just make out the silhouettes of them through breaks in the canopy, and she stumbled the last few yards into a clearing. Here, she shook herself and glared up - about a half-dozen of them circled there, and their noise and boldness made her frayed nerves boil over. The pegasus flared out her wings, uncoiled her whip, and took a few running steps before launching her narrow frame skyward, beating her wings hard to clear the trees.
Her sudden approach alone was enough to draw the birds’ attention, and she just had time to make out the beady gleam of eyes before they began to swarm her. Here, at least, was a foe she could face, and room to do it: Elif squealed a challenge, scythed the air with her front hooves, and cracked the whip with a sound like a gunshot.
It was the last they did not at all care for; she snapped it again, just missing taking a group of feathers from one of the strange bird’s wings, when they seemed to decide it was too much trouble and whirled as one back to the cover of the trees. For a few moments she gave chase, the wind cooling and calming her like the old friend it was, and then she circled, buoyant, laughing, to land on the ledge the birds had been circling.
She was just tucking her wings back to her sides when a flash of red and white caught her eye. Immediately she returned to tension, stiff-legged as she peered over the edge - down into a striking mare’s face.
“Hello,” she said, cautious, thinking of the whip again - but then her gaze made out the scuffed-up path of dirt and plants, and the cuts and scrapes and beading blood, and the other woman’s own expression. The clamor of the birds had died away, but Elif could still hear it echoing, and she thought she understood. “Do you need a hand?” she added, and softened just a little.
@Boudika
