April 13, 2024, 02:58 PM
alone but not lost, saint haunts the sound where they've found brief respite.
the sea is a ferocious force, unquiet in the storm that looms like a dark ink stain in the horizon, stirring the waves with rage.
saint molds themselves after the sea in that moment: untamable. a fortress that would rather kill than be still. quiet. obedient.
her breath quickens in her throat; the taste of salt brine sticking to her lips, her tongue, the back of her throat. the salty seabreeze sticks to her fur, wind-whipped by the gales following the crashing rush of the sea.
and in the image of the great sea, the voices are drowned by her command. her will. the song of a thousand sirens awakening her heart.
the saint needs something to believe in: always. this was her curse; always to rot until there was something higher to worship.
to devout herself to; to preen like a priestess and ready herself to submit upon the holy alter of her making.
she wades into the rough waves; bone-thin from travel and easily tossed 'round like a ragdoll.
how she has not yet lost her footing was a miracle; the hold of the sand unwilling to let her go as the waves receded and then rush right back to meet her.
the sea is a ferocious force, unquiet in the storm that looms like a dark ink stain in the horizon, stirring the waves with rage.
saint molds themselves after the sea in that moment: untamable. a fortress that would rather kill than be still. quiet. obedient.
her breath quickens in her throat; the taste of salt brine sticking to her lips, her tongue, the back of her throat. the salty seabreeze sticks to her fur, wind-whipped by the gales following the crashing rush of the sea.
and in the image of the great sea, the voices are drowned by her command. her will. the song of a thousand sirens awakening her heart.
the saint needs something to believe in: always. this was her curse; always to rot until there was something higher to worship.
to devout herself to; to preen like a priestess and ready herself to submit upon the holy alter of her making.
she wades into the rough waves; bone-thin from travel and easily tossed 'round like a ragdoll.
sisters, i am coming to join you.the sound of her voice, like the rasp of dry reeds startles her; slightly. almost enough to bring about an awareness out of the spell ( of hunger, of desperation, of loneliness: take your pick ) but she the spellweaver is quick and she takes another step, buffeted by wind and rough sea.
how she has not yet lost her footing was a miracle; the hold of the sand unwilling to let her go as the waves receded and then rush right back to meet her.