[P] Fire in my soul

[Marisol]

i'm not weeping, i'm not complaining
happiness is not for me.

The cliffs are unusually cold today. Winter is coming on bright-white wings; a years-old wind sweeps up salt and foam from the crashing waves; as Marisol soars in toward the edge of the cliff, her muscles tighten against the cold, like so many sailor’s knots, and her breath swirls into the frosty air in plumes of faint, soft steam. From up here the world looks mostly calm. In some places it is tinged white with hoarfrost. In others, the trees burn in bright swaths of red and ochre.

And there, just on the edge of the world, a figure starts to move. Just a little speck from here, pulsing like a heartbeat. Marisol pushes her wings back against the salty wind and begins her descent. The ground rushes toward her; with every passing second she plummets closer and closer to the rocky ground until it looks like nothing more than a blur of gray, and now she can sea that the figure lying in the field is splashed in tan and slate. It is not a figure she recognizes. 

Marisol would be suspicious, but the feeling is drowned out by an overwhelming wave of concern. Whoever this person is, they are in need of help. Their ribs and hips are prominent through thin, dull, skin; the turquoise eyes are sort of washed out, grayish like they’ve been put through bleach. It’s strangely unsettling. Mari’s heart aches in sympathy. Even the Commander, too wary for her own good, does not have the strength to refuse help to someone like this.

With a brief beating of wings she comes to a sudden, unsteady stop in the stubby grasses of the cliffs just ahead of the stranger. The jolt sinks from her hooves through her bones and all the way up her legs, but she does not flinch. Just lets a brief, harsh whoosh of air out through her nostrils. 

“Are you alright?”
“Speaking.”

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