I'm headed straight for the castle
Once more she finds herself in the empty halls of the library. Memories of meeting Pravda days prior return to her, they are fresh. As fresh as the wounds torn back open by him. Torn open wide enough that not even the balm of the sea could soothe their ache. Meira moves through the aisles of books she is slowly growing familiar with, the smell of dust is still so foreign to her. The soldier is no scholar, and she still is a fraud in these halls of knowledge. Further and further down the rows of books she wanders. She cannot help but think that all these books are more like teeth than prose on pages. They too are eager to sink themselves into the spaces of her flesh that have not yet scabbed over. Thousands of words that would make her feel the sting of his love again.
Meira sighs as she stares at the titles along the spines of the books. She does not love words as much as she loves violence. So few books have a passion for war the way that she does. It is an ugly thing, and she takes comfort in that. Pain is something tangible. As she is lost in thought, she catches a glimpse of another soul wandering past her. They bear wings and are painted in pastel hues. Their hair is bound in three buns along their nape. Everything about them is elegant. They are everything that she is not. Beautiful, poised. They are not fragile though. She is still so fragile. Her bones will shatter like porcelain if someone takes notice of her. Meira wants this equine to notice her though, in the same way, she has noticed them.
Meira is the one out of place here. "Are you looking for something? The words fall from her lips too quickly for her to catch. They are nervous, awkward. She peers at the woman with her azure pools. She smells like magic, and Meira wishes she smelled like anything but the sea. The sea does not mesh well with prose.
@Willoughby
Meira sighs as she stares at the titles along the spines of the books. She does not love words as much as she loves violence. So few books have a passion for war the way that she does. It is an ugly thing, and she takes comfort in that. Pain is something tangible. As she is lost in thought, she catches a glimpse of another soul wandering past her. They bear wings and are painted in pastel hues. Their hair is bound in three buns along their nape. Everything about them is elegant. They are everything that she is not. Beautiful, poised. They are not fragile though. She is still so fragile. Her bones will shatter like porcelain if someone takes notice of her. Meira wants this equine to notice her though, in the same way, she has noticed them.
Meira is the one out of place here. "Are you looking for something? The words fall from her lips too quickly for her to catch. They are nervous, awkward. She peers at the woman with her azure pools. She smells like magic, and Meira wishes she smelled like anything but the sea. The sea does not mesh well with prose.
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