Memoir of madness

Eira... It is a horrible nightmare… Surely.  As though dead, the small foal with the bruised soul and battered mind, lies motionless amid a sea of mischievous mist - for a very long time. Webbed still with new tears and old, thick black lashes are fused tightly together, shielding the pained pools within from any further trauma; vision of death - of that cold,  creeping, lethal darkness - linger on in her thoughts though, vivid and relentless, harrowing every feeble breath inhaled.  There is no escape.  Their beloved beach is gone. Ma and Pa, they are gone too. Blunt incisors which had clung so desperately to the growing quills of her brother’s young wing, hang slack upon burning hinges, jaws still flinching, quaking as the last heat of their mighty effort dwindles away at last, into nothing.  Indra is gone too… There is darkness in her heart, grim depression disfiguring a tiny face, far too young. The whispering weight of a new, sickening silence clings to her trembling skin, like salty sea air; but their is nothing fond or familiar about its cold, cluttered hue. It is awash with fear, the same flavour which had drowned her innocent lungs before the fall; it had followed her, and now she beds beneath its foul cover, frozen and forsaken. The babe begins to cry.  Quietly at first, hot, briny tears that roll pitifully down her soggy, chilled cheeks; but soon violent sobs wrack her stillness and wretched sounds leak into the strange neon underworld. What else was she to do? Her hollow tummy feels ill (it groans and twists revoltingly), and there is pain, ringing, jarring, blistering her mind; the frail frame which is still young and otherwise pure, is coloured by those final moments spent slumped in the bog.  But nothing seems to hurt as awfully as the sting of loneliness beneath her pounding breast.  SWP Participant Magic: (safe) :: [ Magic: Water x Spark | Able to summon thunder-snow storms.]  :: [ Restrictions | 5m radius ] Enchanted items: - Rift-god / Kaos items: - Amulets : 2 1x Moon 1x Kaos Companion/s :  - Species change (if applicable) :  - Requests: ;D fun things are fun "I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter."

- Pablo Neruda, Winter Garden

White-hot eyes blink from all directions. Pinkish from the surrounding fluorescent, amethyst light, their gazes strobe at you with a cold burn. But they do not move; no matter how close one gets, they cannot see the eyes; only feel their searing stare.

And something else is felt—some draining, awful, eerie sensation that opens your stomach and empties it out. It’s as cold-hot as the eyes; and as unseeable but very tangible. This world is ready, watching, waiting, taking with every move and every breath.

the Rift

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[TRANSFER NOTES : EIRA ]

Magic:
Offensive: Able to summon thunder-snow storms.

Amulets:
The dark droplet of godsblood you hold hisses one small warning, before dissolving into acid against your skin. It hisses and stays there, not quite yet ready to slip into the shadows of its homeland. Instead, it sinks into your skin, sprouting a small pair of black and teal wings. Together, they are no larger than a hoof.

Eira... The earth, cast in eerie, ethereal hue, fails to swallow her - a part of her imagined it might - and instead veils of smoky, billowing shadow looms in closer; neon-white eyes flash wickedly through its ever-moving midst, always distant, always watching. Sobs pour torrents of tears upon that carpet of supernatural colour, but their sound, the brokenness of each whimper, pulls from the underworld no answer.  Except… Their stare is penetrating, burning (though no brand beneath finds hold on her skin), and the sprawled foal begins at last to squirm. Finally ebon lashes split, and red-stained blue, timid eyes peer out. In one glance -the first - she beholds the queerness of the world tumbled into, and Eira trembles terribly with fear. “Indra”, she whispers still softer than even the wiliest ear might detect, “are you?” Still she feels cold, alone and wretched, but there is a feeling stirring above it all, a rising weariness that pales the familiar weight of blissful exhaustion at the end of every day. Nay, it aches in her stomach, like a knife driven through skin; lips wince, journey south to brush against the muddy hide of blue, that encircles her bowel. “Ouch,” she mews, and still-white teeth graze the invisible line as it stings - very much real.  Welling tears break their back, spilling forth in flood, down pre-etched channels.  That velvety maw recoils suddenly, diverting aim to a curse hotter still (it fizzes grotesquely, hisses!); searing acid is pain newer than anything previous, agony, and delirious panic grips her mind. “Help!" she screams, though the sound chokes in her throat and strengthless legs scrabble as hooves quest for traction in the tangle of copious vine.  A harrowed gambol, wings flailing about, helps little to dim the terrorising sensation, less still does it offer an escape. Instinct steers her south - in the direction exactly opposite to the position of her pain (there upon her left collar) - and she moves with the speed of one hunted.  Soon, those blinking, glinting white eyes haunt only her memory, and a new obstacle rises before her, all around her; wild, ancient jungle, through which no path existed to aid her arrival.  {Eira exiting - entering the periphery of Rainforest Cliffs}  "I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter."

- Pablo Neruda, Winter Garden