and the storm spoke / sunborn, day 1
Jun 17, 2020 21:47:48 GMT -5
Post by lucia valentine {d8} 🔹 tris on Jun 17, 2020 21:47:48 GMT -5
She runs into the horizon.
Until the grey gives way to shades of pastel, and the earth fades into a sea of petals at her feet. She stops for a moment, watches them float up to the sky and move through her hair — and then she moves a hand to her chest, and she rips the arrow out.
The sound that leaves her mouth is guttural, and raw, and she turns away from the boy beside her. She doesn't want him to see the way her features twist, the trail of tears down her cheeks. Her lips part, the words 'You can go now,' play on her tongue.
But she only inhales, and exhales.
It had been reckless, asking him to follow her, but that was how she always lived her life. In ruins, and ruination. "Do you have a name?" Her voice is gruff, cracking as it tries to rise above a whisper. She walks ahead, narrowing her eyes through the storm.
She lowers herself to a knee by a familiar bloom, pulling at the petals and pressing them to the wound beneath her shirt. The ache begins to calm, but the throbbing continues to pulse through her muscles. She takes her teeth to her sleeve, ripping off a strip of fabric.
Tying the herbs into place against her, she tilts her head to face the stranger. It takes her a moment to figure out his district, only recognizing him as a background character during her training. She thinks about how willingly he gave up his weapon to her.
That upsets her more than it should.
"I'm Perdita." She moves her gaze down to her hand as she says it, only just registering how badly it has swelled and how difficult it is to close into a fist. She bites the inside of her cheek, urging herself to focus on the more troubling of her injuries.
Bones will mend, and skin will heal, but she cannot afford to lose control here. So she forces herself to stand, and move closer to her companion. She is a lonely girl, surrounded by torn flowers and this gentle boy. But she is harsh, and afraid.
So when the silence is broken, and a shadow charges through the blur of colors, she wastes no time ripping the crossbow from Eight's hand and holding it up. She ignores the agony twisting through her hand as she loads an arrow, finger on the trigger.
"Give me a reason not to shoot."
Because she can't think of one for herself.
Until the grey gives way to shades of pastel, and the earth fades into a sea of petals at her feet. She stops for a moment, watches them float up to the sky and move through her hair — and then she moves a hand to her chest, and she rips the arrow out.
The sound that leaves her mouth is guttural, and raw, and she turns away from the boy beside her. She doesn't want him to see the way her features twist, the trail of tears down her cheeks. Her lips part, the words 'You can go now,' play on her tongue.
But she only inhales, and exhales.
It had been reckless, asking him to follow her, but that was how she always lived her life. In ruins, and ruination. "Do you have a name?" Her voice is gruff, cracking as it tries to rise above a whisper. She walks ahead, narrowing her eyes through the storm.
She lowers herself to a knee by a familiar bloom, pulling at the petals and pressing them to the wound beneath her shirt. The ache begins to calm, but the throbbing continues to pulse through her muscles. She takes her teeth to her sleeve, ripping off a strip of fabric.
Tying the herbs into place against her, she tilts her head to face the stranger. It takes her a moment to figure out his district, only recognizing him as a background character during her training. She thinks about how willingly he gave up his weapon to her.
That upsets her more than it should.
"I'm Perdita." She moves her gaze down to her hand as she says it, only just registering how badly it has swelled and how difficult it is to close into a fist. She bites the inside of her cheek, urging herself to focus on the more troubling of her injuries.
Bones will mend, and skin will heal, but she cannot afford to lose control here. So she forces herself to stand, and move closer to her companion. She is a lonely girl, surrounded by torn flowers and this gentle boy. But she is harsh, and afraid.
So when the silence is broken, and a shadow charges through the blur of colors, she wastes no time ripping the crossbow from Eight's hand and holding it up. She ignores the agony twisting through her hand as she loads an arrow, finger on the trigger.
"Give me a reason not to shoot."
Because she can't think of one for herself.
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