Oh, won't you go, make the most of a bad existence
cause you're so much older than she ever planned to live with
cause you're so much older than she ever planned to live with
Delphine would have hated it here. Sabrina could hear her complaining in her head, Everything is so beige, she would admonish, before setting off down the streets casting spells to fill the world with color and light. Delph’s voice was some years younger. Back when they talked more. Back when there was always something to talk about. Yeah, her sister would have turned Solterra from this starchy backwards sandpit to somewhere worth visiting.
It was part of the way Sabrina knew she wasn’t here; not in the capital, at any rate. But she had made a promise to search everywhere to bring her sister home and a promise made over an open chest cavity and a failing heart was one you kept.
There was, of course, always the off chance that Delphine had been changed so drastically, Sabrina wouldn’t recognize her. That thought made her sad. It was one she had to fight off constantly, like hyenas circling the lion at a fresh kill, in order to preserve her will. She could not let her resolve fall, for she was nothing without it.
The performing girl gave her a quick once over. Not prone to vanity, Sabrina bit back the urge to ask if the younger found what she was looking for. She was tall and wide and strong and plain, with straw yellow hair that shared the same texture. It was unkempt and unbrushable. This dancer was the picture of daintiness; even her horns, as gentle little black nubs, were dainty. Sabrina’s was a gaudy, hollow bauble. It was a symbol of a magic-bearing line that could bear no magic.
She, too, was hollow. She did not notice the rise of color in the young mare’s cheeks. Her gratitude fell on deaf ears. “I call them like I see ‘em,” she said, succinct and gruff.
The dancer took a step closer, and was smiling now. Sabrina fought back the urge to take a step away. She hadn’t willingly shared space with anyone since that night in the alley. Teska had to get close to sew her stolen wings on, but she had been blessedly unconscious for that.
The performing mare spoke lovingly of her mother and Sabrina searched her heart and stomach for even the smallest pang or pinch of homesickness. She came up empty. “Good thing you’re better at it than a badger with a stick, then?” she said, half-rhetorical, but it was mostly swallowed by the red mare’s laughter.
Sabrina’s gaze shifted to the side, slightly awkward. It was an odd analogy. She didn’t get the joke. But, more importantly, when was the last time she’d laughed?
She’d knocked some handsy motherfucker’s teeth out at that viking pub in Skaravegg. She’d laughed over his molars like pearls on the ground, blood pooling around his head.
She was shocked back to the present by the performing mare introducing herself-- Dearest, and her first thought was it sounded sort of like Delphine but not really-- and inviting her for a drink. “Uh… Sabrina,” she responded, trying to ignore that it seemed she had forgotten her own name. Her first instinct was to reject the proposal, but for a moment she thought about that twisted-up feeling in her guts, and her last barfight.
Her tone was softer for her thinking. She didn’t smile, but the tension dropped from her muscles by a milligram. “Sure, Dearest. Lead the way.”
