rage, rage against the dying of the light

NOITCERRU Uwaritace. His nostrils flared as he sniffed the tree, nosing over it. The sooty, smokey smell of ash was inescapable. It clung to the tree like a fungus, and in his mind's eye he could almost see it growing on the tree exactly like one, like something parasitic knotting itself over the bark and slowly suffocating the living organism beneath. That wasn't too far from what happened, he imagined. It was odd to smell fire here, when the land was so wet and the Rift was deep in the Drench season. The smell of fire was still strong despite the rain, much to his surprise. Wouldn't the rain wash it away - and wash away the ash, too, every sign that anything had ever happened here? But instead it stayed, contrary to belief, just as strong as ever. Noitcerru moved closer, one hoof loosely scraping some of the bark. It was almost as foul-smelling as the day the fire had taken place... It was to be expected of the Rift; Noitcerru had lived here all of his life, and knew nothing of what a normal environment should look like, what a land free of malicious impulses and rotting decay should behave like and feel like. He felt a snatch of that during his visit to Helovia, as short lived as that had been, but the particulars had long since faded from his memory. There were many trees in the Rift, most of them burnt out like this in places. And that was not unusual; he didn't balk at the casual death of the Rift. Trees were not his to own, anyway; they were a part of the land, and Noitcerru cared little for them. But the fact it had a name struck even him as odd. Uwaritace. How did he know that? He snorted, ash scurrying up the bark as he exhaled. Something was different about this tree. He cared about this tree. A cry erupted the birdman's train of thought. He recoiled from the tree, his wings narrowly missing some of the larger branches as he quickly backed out of the intimacy of the boughs with his full span outstretched. He backed away as quickly as he could, his head moving in tight, sharp little turns to look around, to see where the noise was coming from. The crest of red feathers striking a trail down his face like a blaze suddenly raised in alarm, like a trail of blood. In his urgency one of his legs dashed against a branch and he winced as he drew away, free of the tree. Its branches had been welcoming in a way he hadn't understood but now it was restrictive against an unknown foe. Once he was at a safe distance away from the tree he looked down - only to find someone there looking up at him.   The stallion stared at her, for a moment absolutely still. If he stayed still, maybe she would go away - the birds did that, so why shouldn't he? But her words echoed in his mind and he knew she could see him, even in the mist. The crest between his eyes and falling down to his nose slowly lowered to lie flat.   "What am I doing? He looked at her as if it was the most natural thing in the world. If anything he looked down as if seeing someone on the ground was the odd thing; he was momentarily, as he was always, surprised that some horses travelled so. His unique twist of diction and accent carried despite the distance between them, laughter erupting from him like the sharp caws of crows. "What are you doing, Muddy Mare?" The alliteration was pleasing. Muddy she certainly was; he could tell from up here. There was some satirical humour in his tone, but something curious, too, as he looked down at her, almost looking twice. She looked like she was part of Drench itself, and the mud didn't help with that image - but with spines erupting from her at various points. It was these in part, but mostly the lights coming off them, that grabbed his attention. It took even his keen eyesight a moment to recognise them for what they were - orbs, hanging from the spines. As they moved with her his gaze followed, as glassy as their surface.   The hoofed. They came in so many...colours. He lowered himself, but didn't come down to her level. That would be too dangerous, and there was a wily look in his eyes that overtook the curiosity; he hovered, a little further down than before but not by much. But he cocked his head at her, mirroring her gesture almost exactly. How did these hoofed act? Riftian. Riftian hoofed. If that meant anything to Noitcerru it didn't show on his face. A hoofed was a hoofed, a landlocked a landlocked, a flightless a flightless. Did it matter where they came from? "What are you doing? What are you doing?" He was almost like a parrot - but with the sharp head-turns of a goshawk. The feathers that covered his body instead of a coat prickled, rain washing down his hairless neck. "Here for the tree? Uwaritace? Uwaritace?" "Talk" @Moä Te run boy run this world is not made for you

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