Saphira we are magic talking to itself
She is practicing turning things to salt when she hears the shuffle of hooves in the undergrowth. An assortment of leaf- and twig-shaped salt sculptures, as well as ambiguously crumbled salt-piles, form a ring around the azure mare. Hastily, she gets up and kicks them down, retreating into the shadows to listen for the strangers’ passing. She still isn’t sure what to think about this magic - what others think about this magic. To hide it is habit; she never had the privilege before and now she obsesses over proper solitude. The unpredictable nature of her new magic has only sent her further into hiding; she wishes only to avoid the market - even if she does want to turn some of those snotty girls into salt.
Saphira watches from the trees as the couple disperse, the stallion going off elsewhere as the dark mare finds her way to a patch of plants. The mare digs at the soil with her hooves and pulls a bunch of roots at with her teeth. Saphira isn’t familiar with the plant; she has made some effort in learning about what edible plants grew in her court, but to this one she can only say it looks, maybe, familiar. If it had been at market, she hadn’t been able to afford it. So, she approaches the stranger, slowly, and stops a few feet behind her. “What is that?” she asks.
@
"How do the lucky ones feel
and how do the blessed think—
like water stirring
or a ripple on a trough.
But how do the luckless feel
and how do the caloos think?
This is how the luckless feel
how the caloos think—
like hard snow under a ridge
like water in a deep well."
and how do the blessed think—
like water stirring
or a ripple on a trough.
But how do the luckless feel
and how do the caloos think?
This is how the luckless feel
how the caloos think—
like hard snow under a ridge
like water in a deep well."
