Broken Doll

The woodland continues to give her the willies, especially when it seems to make the stranger before her warp and change before her very eyes. Shrilly shrieking a cry into the deluge, she scampers backwards, her sodden cloak cleaving to her side and otherwise lamely flopping as she again finds herself with rump pressed to the horrible tree. Another forward leap of disgust accompanied with a shout of, “Yeuck!” leaves her with splayed legs and white rimmed eyes, peering up fretfully at the painted stranger. She looks the same, but so did Maude, for now. Aside from the itching, which had creepily faded away, all that had happened seemed to be what had just happened to the mare, albeit slightly different. Weird, magic stuff: Maude didn’t know what to call it. At least the other woman is afraid, too. She hears it in her voice, and it helps the ginger and cream maiden feel a little less cowardly to be frightened herself. The dark wood around them seems to whisper and croon, to such a degree that she has to focus her attention on the woman as she speaks, so as to hear her words, and not the forests. It could not be expressed how ready Maude was to leave this place. “I’ve been to the Basin before, twice,” she cheerfully begins, a smile blooming on her lips and her brows raising in eagerness to talk about how pretty the festivals had been, to remember them: but for some reason, the memories are no longer all that happy. They make her heart fill up with a cold sadness, accompanied with the thought that I will never get to go there, again. She’s awfully glad when Bathsheba keeps talking. “The… the Rift?” Maude says, looking around with her dislike of this place writ all across it, “I wonder if everywhere is this… creepy. You wanna see if we can… oh!” Suddenly remembering all of her things, she quickly tosses her cloak open to allow her access to her pockets, pulling out her potted plants one by one, and righting their rather bent by travel stems. Proceeding to remove plentiful dirt from the pockets, as well, and tamping it back down into the pots, she occasionally makes tuttering noises of disapproval or worry, looking up at Bathsheba with an apologetic smile. “I’m sorry, I just remembered my plants,” she proudly explains, stepping back to gesture at them with a fore hoof, as if to say, ta-da! as she often did when presenting them. Wilted, pocket beaten, and obviously worse for wear, the plants are not as beautiful as they’d been when she’d hurriedly placed them inside her magically spacious pockets. “I had to bring them in a hurry, so they look a bit pitiful, but I’m sure they’ll be just perfect once I find us all a home.” [ OOC: UNTIL THEY GO FERAL AND BITE YOU ]

Art by TheCallyBear@ DA