November 04, 2023, 11:53 PM
for when u have the time <3
Astrid often found herself wondering when sleeping would get easier.
The days drone on and clip into one another. Her meals are tasteless; her slumber is dreamless. She does not remember when she last spoke a word.
She clings to the hip of Tauris even though she wants to whack the snot-nosed children of hers sometimes. They look at her funny these days. Everyone does.
Kristjan is spilling over with an unspeakable, frothing rage. Sven's surface cracks and dribbles with anguish. Ujurak is reticent; he holds the weight of the world upon his shoulders and yet she knows he aches to his core. Mamma is unyielding. No one else exists to her, for they did not know, did not understand—
And then there is @Bonario.
Astrid knew not what to make of him; the screams, his screams still pierce her eardrums, rock her soul. He, too, has swept himself beneath the cover of Kvarsheim's trees. He is raw. He is angry. When she watches him from the sidelines, she sees herself in him, in the crease of his brow and the high-pitched rumbles from his throat.
She comes to him today with no offering, no greeting; only the soft thump of her feet as she comes to settle adjacent to him, head low and eyes worn with glass.
The days drone on and clip into one another. Her meals are tasteless; her slumber is dreamless. She does not remember when she last spoke a word.
She clings to the hip of Tauris even though she wants to whack the snot-nosed children of hers sometimes. They look at her funny these days. Everyone does.
Kristjan is spilling over with an unspeakable, frothing rage. Sven's surface cracks and dribbles with anguish. Ujurak is reticent; he holds the weight of the world upon his shoulders and yet she knows he aches to his core. Mamma is unyielding. No one else exists to her, for they did not know, did not understand—
And then there is @Bonario.
Astrid knew not what to make of him; the screams, his screams still pierce her eardrums, rock her soul. He, too, has swept himself beneath the cover of Kvarsheim's trees. He is raw. He is angry. When she watches him from the sidelines, she sees herself in him, in the crease of his brow and the high-pitched rumbles from his throat.
She comes to him today with no offering, no greeting; only the soft thump of her feet as she comes to settle adjacent to him, head low and eyes worn with glass.