Twilight turns the sky a dusky cocktail of indigo and firelight, it bleeds into an ink-ladled night away from the horizon, where the stars are angel eyes and they blink away the sleep. The air is warm, all the heat from the dunes rising like wayward spirits, forced to wander the earth until the hours pass and soothe away the warmth.
The mirages were not the only restless entities.
A chimera mare slinks across the desert, she moves like a sidewinder, graceful and sylph-like across the tide of moon-bleached sands. She is a dark and wrathful shape, a wraith of a woman, hairs dancing wildly behind her like a pennant of war. Quietly, she slithers to the mouth of an oasis; two golden black eyes trace the dappling shadows of the lush foliage for signs of life – a speckled ear and its plain partner are cupping the air and listening for strangers.
For the time being, her only company was the crickets in the brush. The babbling of the waterfall was uninterrupted, the soft whispers of water cutting into sandstone a temptress of peace.
Fever sighs once she is certain she is alone, her shoulders slump gently, her posture is relaxing as she sinks into tranquility. Vitae Oasis was still standing in all her glory – the woman fondly recalls her excursions here, whenever she’d convince another slave to come with her, and in strange sisterhood, they’d come bathe in hopes the waters would dissolve their chains; Fever remembers other women much wiser than her telling her secrets of the limestone that turns to milk in these waters, and they would paint over her wounds and sores and gently sing servant hymns.
If ever asked what love is, she would assume that besides the grace of her mother, those wiser crones were as close to love as Fever would ever get – that kind of affection was selfless and healing, primal and feral yet gentle and tender.
Tonight, she hoped to see their ghosts playing in the pools, perhaps laughing and splashing, free and untamed. And maybe they were quietly watching, but instead of hair braiding and gaiety, only the wind plays in Fever’s tangles, and no smile touches her black lips.
Fever instead draws closer to the water’s edge, glancing further back behind the fronds where the waterfall spills. She looks down to her reflection and shifts, prepared to remove her mask and jewelry so that she can slip into the water. Yet she hesitates as an unknown perfume hits her nostrils, stirs something alive in her, and she unsheathes that knife-like stare and looks over her shoulder into the darkness. Her heart is fluttering rapidly and she can feel the adrenaline eating at her muscles, yet she masks her fear of the unknown well, and does not let the stranger know that she has been startled.
“Well,” she speaks like the juice spilling from crushed ripe fruit, “Are you coming to join me? These waters heal you.” With a curious curl of her neck, she awaits to see and hear the figure out of reach.
@Torielle
The mirages were not the only restless entities.
A chimera mare slinks across the desert, she moves like a sidewinder, graceful and sylph-like across the tide of moon-bleached sands. She is a dark and wrathful shape, a wraith of a woman, hairs dancing wildly behind her like a pennant of war. Quietly, she slithers to the mouth of an oasis; two golden black eyes trace the dappling shadows of the lush foliage for signs of life – a speckled ear and its plain partner are cupping the air and listening for strangers.
For the time being, her only company was the crickets in the brush. The babbling of the waterfall was uninterrupted, the soft whispers of water cutting into sandstone a temptress of peace.
Fever sighs once she is certain she is alone, her shoulders slump gently, her posture is relaxing as she sinks into tranquility. Vitae Oasis was still standing in all her glory – the woman fondly recalls her excursions here, whenever she’d convince another slave to come with her, and in strange sisterhood, they’d come bathe in hopes the waters would dissolve their chains; Fever remembers other women much wiser than her telling her secrets of the limestone that turns to milk in these waters, and they would paint over her wounds and sores and gently sing servant hymns.
If ever asked what love is, she would assume that besides the grace of her mother, those wiser crones were as close to love as Fever would ever get – that kind of affection was selfless and healing, primal and feral yet gentle and tender.
Tonight, she hoped to see their ghosts playing in the pools, perhaps laughing and splashing, free and untamed. And maybe they were quietly watching, but instead of hair braiding and gaiety, only the wind plays in Fever’s tangles, and no smile touches her black lips.
Fever instead draws closer to the water’s edge, glancing further back behind the fronds where the waterfall spills. She looks down to her reflection and shifts, prepared to remove her mask and jewelry so that she can slip into the water. Yet she hesitates as an unknown perfume hits her nostrils, stirs something alive in her, and she unsheathes that knife-like stare and looks over her shoulder into the darkness. Her heart is fluttering rapidly and she can feel the adrenaline eating at her muscles, yet she masks her fear of the unknown well, and does not let the stranger know that she has been startled.
“Well,” she speaks like the juice spilling from crushed ripe fruit, “Are you coming to join me? These waters heal you.” With a curious curl of her neck, she awaits to see and hear the figure out of reach.
@Torielle
![[Image: 45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png]](https://f2.toyhou.se/file/f2-toyhou-se/images/45505141_kShAGp5UVRG2Lvt.png)
i am a forest fire; i am the fire and i am the forest
and i am a witness watching it
