Solanis
03-24-2018, 05:03 PM
You've been calling her Night Sky ever since the first time you saw her, a strange and wondrous thing in this strange and wondrous place, but suddenly, you hear her name: K'yarie. You pause, your nose hovering above the dying flowers, confused by this conflict of interest within you. These flowers need your help, and yet you're thinking about a name..?
As your magic sweeps through the area a few of the flowers come back to life, like after a breath on cooling embers, but the relief pricking your heart is short-lived. After a second they falter again. "No," you whisper, desperately touching your muzzle to yet another one. What can you do?
Nothing.
Nothing.
It hits you harder than you thought it would, a painful reminder of how you ended up here in the first place. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry, raising your head to peer at the others—the distress evident in your pale eyes.
But instead of being greeted by death and ruin, you're greeted by the flowers lighting up around the stranger. Their warm glow ground his body, anchor the fine lines in reality; what had been but a shadow becomes a horse, lost in wonder at what he has done.
It makes him look younger.
You're not sure what he did, and though you could ask him, he seemed incapable of answering—you wonder if this place steals voices—so you might as well watch what he does. With the same kind of ethereal, unconscious grace he bounds to the next patch of spreading darkness, eagerly digging up the bad flowers.
You turn your attention back to the diseased thing by your hooves, peering at it intently. Tar, like thick blood of some kind, seeps from it; the smell makes your nose wrinkle. You had thought in terms of healing, fixing, restoring, but perhaps the newcomer has it right: purging. Rot, an infection, to be removed. You dig your hooves into the soil around it, uprooting it, and then you peer expectantly at the patch around you.
As your magic sweeps through the area a few of the flowers come back to life, like after a breath on cooling embers, but the relief pricking your heart is short-lived. After a second they falter again. "No," you whisper, desperately touching your muzzle to yet another one. What can you do?
Nothing.
Nothing.
It hits you harder than you thought it would, a painful reminder of how you ended up here in the first place. You swallow, mouth suddenly dry, raising your head to peer at the others—the distress evident in your pale eyes.
But instead of being greeted by death and ruin, you're greeted by the flowers lighting up around the stranger. Their warm glow ground his body, anchor the fine lines in reality; what had been but a shadow becomes a horse, lost in wonder at what he has done.
It makes him look younger.
You're not sure what he did, and though you could ask him, he seemed incapable of answering—you wonder if this place steals voices—so you might as well watch what he does. With the same kind of ethereal, unconscious grace he bounds to the next patch of spreading darkness, eagerly digging up the bad flowers.
You turn your attention back to the diseased thing by your hooves, peering at it intently. Tar, like thick blood of some kind, seeps from it; the smell makes your nose wrinkle. You had thought in terms of healing, fixing, restoring, but perhaps the newcomer has it right: purging. Rot, an infection, to be removed. You dig your hooves into the soil around it, uprooting it, and then you peer expectantly at the patch around you.
