like having your throat cut,
just that fast
just that fast
Being alive is like being an ember in a dry forest. There is this hunger to consume, and consume, until that ember becomes a wildfire racing through the world. A forest that at the start had seemed like enough turns to a hollow feeling as the end of the treeline draws near. Life, being alive, is not a fragile or gentle feeling.
Amaunet is ablaze with the feeling of living. The song her blood is singing as the teryr stars to rouse, and find its sleepy fury, is as addicting has any opiate she has ever braved. On her tongue the feather tastes as wondrous as any thing that would carry her deep, deep, deep into the belly of the sun where only fire could travel. The softness of it between her lips is far better than any kiss they have ever given, or receives, or dreamed of when slumber made her almost-soft.
The sun feels hotter when she steps from the cave. It feels like a warning when the teryr grumbles and she can hear the quiet trill of sand taking shape into sparrows. When she looks at the stallion, really looks at him this time, she can see the promise of the desert in his stoic face and his dangerous magic. Beneath her skin her own magic starts to rouse, and purr to the desert in him, as her wings spread wide against the canyon wind.
Sand starts to quiver beneath her hooves and the rock moans like a landslide when the sparrows burst from the darkness to follow the stallion. Amaunet realizes she had lingered a little too long watching the desert tremble around the stallion. But she does not pause to give him thanks, not with the treasure of a feather held between her teeth.
Amaunet leaps off the cliff edge as he starts to spiral downward. The teryr bursts from his cavern and her aching magic rises in her chest from ember to a wildfire of life. She glows bright as the sun and her own glare is just as harsh as she streaks away from the cave.
It is maybe the kindest thing she has ever done when she cries out a dark challenge to the teryr so that he might chase her instead of the stallion walking down the pathway. A war-cry is the only thanks the stallion will get from her.
She has trained her whole life for this moment, this thrilling chase between life and death, and she does not feel an ounce of fear as she maneuvers through the canyon faster than a hawk and as agile as a swallow. No teryr will devour her, not today.
But someday, when she dies, it will be the desert that takes in her one way or another.
@Ipomoea
Amaunet is ablaze with the feeling of living. The song her blood is singing as the teryr stars to rouse, and find its sleepy fury, is as addicting has any opiate she has ever braved. On her tongue the feather tastes as wondrous as any thing that would carry her deep, deep, deep into the belly of the sun where only fire could travel. The softness of it between her lips is far better than any kiss they have ever given, or receives, or dreamed of when slumber made her almost-soft.
The sun feels hotter when she steps from the cave. It feels like a warning when the teryr grumbles and she can hear the quiet trill of sand taking shape into sparrows. When she looks at the stallion, really looks at him this time, she can see the promise of the desert in his stoic face and his dangerous magic. Beneath her skin her own magic starts to rouse, and purr to the desert in him, as her wings spread wide against the canyon wind.
Sand starts to quiver beneath her hooves and the rock moans like a landslide when the sparrows burst from the darkness to follow the stallion. Amaunet realizes she had lingered a little too long watching the desert tremble around the stallion. But she does not pause to give him thanks, not with the treasure of a feather held between her teeth.
Amaunet leaps off the cliff edge as he starts to spiral downward. The teryr bursts from his cavern and her aching magic rises in her chest from ember to a wildfire of life. She glows bright as the sun and her own glare is just as harsh as she streaks away from the cave.
It is maybe the kindest thing she has ever done when she cries out a dark challenge to the teryr so that he might chase her instead of the stallion walking down the pathway. A war-cry is the only thanks the stallion will get from her.
She has trained her whole life for this moment, this thrilling chase between life and death, and she does not feel an ounce of fear as she maneuvers through the canyon faster than a hawk and as agile as a swallow. No teryr will devour her, not today.
But someday, when she dies, it will be the desert that takes in her one way or another.
@Ipomoea
