little pilgrim
the Indian's axed your scalp.
the Indian's axed your scalp.
There is too much activity, too much noise and bustle; Elif feels like a child on market day, crushed in by bodies at all sides. She wishes O were beside her, with her savage smile and her hurlbat; she wishes Caine were before her, clearing a path with his two pairs of of wings. She wishes she were brave enough - or had reason enough - to seize the whip from her side and crack the air like thunder with it, parting the sea, giving her room to breathe.
But none of these things are doable, and so she only sucks in a breath and calls up a breeze, one that finds her and caresses her cheek with a kiss of salt, yanks its fingers through her savagely short hair.
And then she shoulders on, and finds herself at last facing the statue.
Elif eyes it narrowly, her wings tight against her sides, her alaja snug around her throat. She is not near enough to make out the words (or the note itself, for that matter) but no need - the crowd has already passed back what it says, and she has already heard a thousand versions of what it might mean. A hunt - a god - a Relic. Her green eyes narrow; she shakes her angular head, wishing she could quiet the cacophony of the crowd. Here in the innermost ring of the circle, not even the breeze can reach her, and the mare does not linger long.
When she at last manages to emerge from the worst of the press, she breathes deeply, waiting for her heartbeat to slow, watching the waves roll up onto the beach. She does not yet turn toward that dark forest, the trees waving their arms, beckoning. She is not sure how to begin.
STAFF EDIT***
@elif has rolled a 1! She has been awarded +1 EXP point.
