s w a h i l i
take a drunk girl home
let her sleep all alone
leave her keys on the counter
your number by the phone
pick up her life she threw on the floor
There was a variety of way of lives, even beneath the singular flag of Solterra. There where the elitists, with money older than their name - not even bothering to work from generation to generation. There were merchant families that had earned respect for their wares, and fame for the money such wares produced (her own family legacy came from such a humble beginning that had grown and grown as the prestige did). There were those who struggled to get by, begging on the street for hand outs. And then there were the passing by flights of fancy like her mother had been. Exotic caravans of horses that belonged to the desert, their steps a tribute to the gods of forgotten lands, silks and scarves, and a wildness as pure as the dawn of horses.
The desert rose held the soul, the heart of such a wayward mirage; but she was trapped into the societal claims of her father. His culture was the one she was growing up in, and it was the one that would decide her future. Married off to the highest bidder willing to offer for the young mare ready for marriage and a new household, a new family name. Where she would grow plump producing the heirs to such a family - a trapped treasure in a vault, subjected to the whims of an unknown face, a husband wanting a trophy to display at parties. She knew what awaited the daughters of elites. She also knew that her father wouldn't be as cautious in making her match as he would with her half-sisters. They were dolted on, she was an extra that would provide an extra connection to be established.
What would this stallion do if he knew her loyalties were not to her father. That it was a lack of trust to the gem encrusted stallion that supplied her words that she might avoid confrontation should he report her presence in the main fare to her father. She played the part, but her loyalties were to her brother - the only member of the Ataear Family that she properly claimed to be her own. But to save her own hide, she would cautiously say what was expected. Still she glances to surprise when he laughs, and it is like an invisible whip to her hindquarters that keeps her expression simple, when the inner rose wished to show her thorns, and throw him a huffy look. Her father would tan her hide if she didn't act a proper lady, "I can certainly shadow my own movements, sir; I do not need another to do so. I have taken care of my own self long enough to know how to avoid unwanted eyes, and my father's ire. I am certain I can travel the market without risk on my own. It is true, I do not know you, thus I cannot trust a stranger. I've seen very few moments of truth on why I should allow others my trust when they're quick to sell me out for the coin my father is willing to provide." No matter how kind this stranger painted himself, "Actions speak louder than words, I will not be lead astray based merely on empty promises." Not when she knew the ire her father would unleash as soon as the door closed, and others could no longer peak inside.
She doesn't reply when he comments on it being wonderful to meet her, instead those jeweled eyes watch him as he dips his head, pushing himself into the crowds. Only then does her shoulders relax, her posture soften, and that agility of before return, the dancer soon slipping through the shadows as if they were her own stage, steps lighter than air as she made her way back father's estate. She paused beside the wall coated in ivy, glancing around before dipping beneath the heavy vines to sneak within the otherwise sealed estate.
"Speech"
Thoughts
@Jarek
Notes: :D
