Crisp linen sheets, freshly bleached in blood.

Akira · May 02, 2019, 04:29 PM

It is already too late to swim when the water reaches your lips.

It was a foggy afternoon, chilled enough to fluff delicate fur, yet warm enough to retain enough moisture to dew-drop the tips of her unusual coat. It sheened over her, but only in reflect of her own brilliance- the sun was a hidden companion, today. Jilpa rested on the Swan’s narrow shoulders, residing with her for this rare occasion of a patrol, together. Ever since Ford’s untimely disappearance-

Gritting pearlene ivories together, she fixed her face into a complete mask of unreadable trace. She would find the Emperor- and whomever decided to do horrid things to him would pay, mercilessly. Jilpa had seemed to pick up on her discomfort, and the Shrike groomed the upturned brush of her ruff just as she made way over a fallen palm husk.

She apologized to the Shrike soundlessly, taking a deep breath and forcing her head to clear, flapping free her troubles to clear while she was consumed in this mist beach front.
Her grief...her anxiety...The Swan wished them away.

And seemingly, away they went.

Not all birds have been taught to fly. Some simply fall until they either learn, or perish.