Faith in their hands shall snap in two,
And the unicorn evils run them through;
And the unicorn evils run them through;
The tree calls to her as all things made instead of grown (or born) call to each other. She can feel the lines of magic running through the grass as much as she can see the blaze of it on the horizon. It whispers not to her of stories, or legends, or gods.
It whispers of forgotten wars and blood-of-the-earth. And the notes of it seem to her as much of death as they are of life.
She does not waiver in her path to the tree, nor does she pause to greet the others gathering around the base of it like lambs. The coming night soothes the roar below her skin, settles it into a purr instead of a snarl. And perhaps the crowd can see it in her, that touch of savageness, when she walks though them like each of their forms is nothing more than a weed.
While others might see beauty, or wonder, or magic, Thana only sees a reminder in the arcane tree. She sees fire instead of stars. The red blooms are not flowers but stones of blood. Twilight wood is not the fall of night but bruises laid down on top of each other until lilac turns to almost-black. The grass is not gold but blood, strained out like a stream from the gods that have long since forsaken this world.
Perhaps it's the god-blood color of the grass that makes her tap her horn against the tree and whisper I will not forsake you in the only language that things made understand-- bone to bone, root to root, sharpness to sharpness.
Around them the bison bed down to slumber. Night-birds start to roost in the stardust branches. A thunderbird bellows at the rising moon as it passes across the meadow. Eligos joins the howling and Thana can see his black form racing after the wolves as they join together for the last hunt of the day. Hunger blooms in her stomach as it always does and moss starts to crawl across the tree from the tip of her horn.
And the sight of it sets her hunger to aching.
Soon, she tells the tree with a tap, tap, tap of her horn. Soon.
"Speaking." @Random Events
It whispers of forgotten wars and blood-of-the-earth. And the notes of it seem to her as much of death as they are of life.
She does not waiver in her path to the tree, nor does she pause to greet the others gathering around the base of it like lambs. The coming night soothes the roar below her skin, settles it into a purr instead of a snarl. And perhaps the crowd can see it in her, that touch of savageness, when she walks though them like each of their forms is nothing more than a weed.
While others might see beauty, or wonder, or magic, Thana only sees a reminder in the arcane tree. She sees fire instead of stars. The red blooms are not flowers but stones of blood. Twilight wood is not the fall of night but bruises laid down on top of each other until lilac turns to almost-black. The grass is not gold but blood, strained out like a stream from the gods that have long since forsaken this world.
Perhaps it's the god-blood color of the grass that makes her tap her horn against the tree and whisper I will not forsake you in the only language that things made understand-- bone to bone, root to root, sharpness to sharpness.
Around them the bison bed down to slumber. Night-birds start to roost in the stardust branches. A thunderbird bellows at the rising moon as it passes across the meadow. Eligos joins the howling and Thana can see his black form racing after the wolves as they join together for the last hunt of the day. Hunger blooms in her stomach as it always does and moss starts to crawl across the tree from the tip of her horn.
And the sight of it sets her hunger to aching.
Soon, she tells the tree with a tap, tap, tap of her horn. Soon.
***STAFF EDIT
@thana has been awarded +1EXP!
