Warriors unfold whether we're young or old
Sometimes we take and we pillage for gold
Wings cradle her ivory sides, sultry within the steamy breaths of the masses. The trail of smoke that flowed from her lungs shivered like the taught muscles of her body as she stood in the unfamiliarity, the ardour of her forlorn disposition seeping into her confidence and stealing her might; a bottle of white wine half empty with the black ink that welled through her veins.
Remember your name.
She rises her head and peers above the dozens of crowns which rock to the wistful warble before those sinking pools of abyss fall onto the duly named Red and comes her voice like silk dragged through a glacier.
“Daunt,”
Her name burns in the slip of her throat, screaming to release but with nothing to follow. The harp strums a sombre solo as the poet comes to a pause and the sadness ricochets from the head to the rearmost souls whom swallow the cords in sync with their gentle sways and the poet begins again. His words bleed into the drums of her ears and she falls back into place against the reddened mare and carries her voice discreetly to the spotted women.
“His words, they are so sad,”
The seeds of her soul were rattled by the sorrowful vibrations that reached into her and drew cracks in the stone heart nestled in her chest. Reminders of family as he sang and the picturesque scape of home welcomed her vision but it was tainted. Tainted by the deed carried out by her hooves and all pleasure washed from the creases of her face and she was dry. Aweary from her descent down the mountains and solus in the new realm she found herself in despite the beating bodies around her.
But maybe loneliness was a beautiful thing.
ooc:
tags: @Red
Titles deserved and the dead will not rise
It's kinda my fault when the childen all cry
