Conditions Of My Parole.

Zahra and Ilham

It was pride that turned angels into devils

It was pouring. Furious rivulets formed and flurried down through the thickened winter coat that the golden-bellied girl was wearing and only brief time passed before she was soaked to the bone, shivering in the chill murk; wilting like a burdened bough in the rain. 
 

The downpour caused the frail arachnid frame of her bonded much grief; the smooth silver face of their collar offered no traction at all, and droplets still larger than the whole of her, threatened ominously to wash her downstream. Gravitating to the ebon warmth of the mare’s lean shoulder, spiked toes plunged between sleek, sodden hairs to secure a hold and pull the orb of well-nourished abdomen beneath the sanctuary of hanging, oil-slick mane. Cosy was the shelter there found, and Ilham nestled down to wait for a break in the weather.

 

All the while, the obnoxious deluge distracted both mare and companion from the silent evaporation of the amulets so cherished; they had been gifted by her parents before, each before death. Each magical trinket winked soundlessly into nothing, and with them (albeit less visibly), was stolen the enchantment from her father’s green-leaf charm. 

 

Discomforted by the cold, and the shadows which still swirled through the strange, eerie under-belly place, the winged girl found her bearings enough to travel; to seek out cover beneath the old twisted trunks of fluorescently lit timber, and the vines snarled throughout. It was an unsettlingly peculiar dimension into which they’d fallen – indeed she remembered the strangeness that had spewed from these parts, a year or so past.

 

Pale eyes search carefully, charily, unbothered by the host of searing eyes (they grew no nearer), but all the same, wary of the new, neon nightmare which had stolen from her, death. She could not step freely and it caused much frustration in the already frayed contours of her blackened mind, and each motion forward became aggressive; hoof rim striking with diminishing regard for the obstacle presented by this new, natural world. 

 

It was as she drove forward, slicing crudely through vine and glinting loam that the daughter of the Starry-Eyed came reluctantly upon another.

 

Instantly she paused, tested the waterlogged air for taste of his unfamiliar flavour, but without hint born upon it, she gestured forward with voice instead. “You, there… friend or foe?” Her tact and once fluent social grace had all but been lost in the years spent confined, and the tone written beneath cared little to disguise her gruff mood. 

^{image credits}
@Dreadnought