wrapped in shrouds of muscles
—
Teak would not follow her into the caves.
The cheetah did not hide his irritation. When she first stepped into the shadows he lashed his tail, chirruped at her in agitation, pushes his whiskers back and showed her his teeth. Aster laughed at him, but lovingly, the way she used to at her brother. And then she said, “Don’t wait for me,” though she knew that he would, and turned and walked further and further into the dark.
She wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Only something different, only something new. Here in the belly of the mountains, it smelled of the sharp tang of minerals and the cool musk of clay. It was not as quiet as she thought it would be, and not as warm. There was almost always the sound of water, often only a faint trickle, like the background of a dream.
Aster had found the picture-cavern by its torchlight. More than anything, she wondered who lit it - more than wondering who painted the figures on the walls, or when, or why. The horses of Novus seemingly loved to paint, loved to mark paper and walls and one another’s skins. And it didn’t matter to her whether the words marked above the images were ancient or forgotten or made up entirely, because nobody ever taught Aster how to read.
Still she had spent some time there, telling herself the story. And then she had gone on, and found only the musk of the caves, and bats, and darkness, until she turned back.
And as she winds her way back she hears the scrape, scrape of something like metal or bone against the floor or the walls. For a moment she listens, her nose curled toward her chest, her heart beating beating beating like a rabbit running running running down narrower corridors than these. Then she hears the hoof steps, a pattern against the stone, and she starts forward again.
The unicorn reaches the torch-lit cavern, the picture cavern, before Aster does. So Aster has the luxury of standing in the darkness for a moment, simply watching, her golden eyes luminous in the semidarkness. There is no hiding her for long - she is pale as a ghost - and at last she steps into the mouth of her entrance, across the room from the other girl.
Curiously, head tilted like a bird, she watches the unicorn touch one of the figures.
“Do you think it’s true?” she asks, and gestures lightly toward the wall, where all the throats are slashed with red.
@Isolt
The cheetah did not hide his irritation. When she first stepped into the shadows he lashed his tail, chirruped at her in agitation, pushes his whiskers back and showed her his teeth. Aster laughed at him, but lovingly, the way she used to at her brother. And then she said, “Don’t wait for me,” though she knew that he would, and turned and walked further and further into the dark.
She wasn’t looking for anything in particular. Only something different, only something new. Here in the belly of the mountains, it smelled of the sharp tang of minerals and the cool musk of clay. It was not as quiet as she thought it would be, and not as warm. There was almost always the sound of water, often only a faint trickle, like the background of a dream.
Aster had found the picture-cavern by its torchlight. More than anything, she wondered who lit it - more than wondering who painted the figures on the walls, or when, or why. The horses of Novus seemingly loved to paint, loved to mark paper and walls and one another’s skins. And it didn’t matter to her whether the words marked above the images were ancient or forgotten or made up entirely, because nobody ever taught Aster how to read.
Still she had spent some time there, telling herself the story. And then she had gone on, and found only the musk of the caves, and bats, and darkness, until she turned back.
And as she winds her way back she hears the scrape, scrape of something like metal or bone against the floor or the walls. For a moment she listens, her nose curled toward her chest, her heart beating beating beating like a rabbit running running running down narrower corridors than these. Then she hears the hoof steps, a pattern against the stone, and she starts forward again.
The unicorn reaches the torch-lit cavern, the picture cavern, before Aster does. So Aster has the luxury of standing in the darkness for a moment, simply watching, her golden eyes luminous in the semidarkness. There is no hiding her for long - she is pale as a ghost - and at last she steps into the mouth of her entrance, across the room from the other girl.
Curiously, head tilted like a bird, she watches the unicorn touch one of the figures.
“Do you think it’s true?” she asks, and gestures lightly toward the wall, where all the throats are slashed with red.
@Isolt
