movement.
a screech as the vulture perched on the ogre's shoulder, stumbling, opens its wings for balance and removes itself; it has waited so long for a meal but, this one isn't ready yet.
water—she needs water.
zharille follows what she can of a river. it isn't much. as this splits in to different paths across the wasteland she follows it east for no real reason, her steps heavy and stride lurching, as if some kind of autonomic function exerts its own will upon her. in the back of her feral mind she knows that to stop is to die and that cannot happen.
there is only the open expanse of wasteland around her, for a time. it all looks the same. dry, dull, brown, gold, shimmering beneath heat she cannot abide but must withstand. she doesn't know how long she marches.
the vulture follows from a high altitude, its shadow barely registering across the scrubland.
when she finally must stop, it is in the shadow of a rising barrier of stone. zharille's mind, already slow to churn like the pouring of molasses, is worse off after the hours and hours and hours of toil. she makes the barest connection: palace, children, walls, fortress; are her children here? is that what has drawn her?
she smells water. greatwater? no.
but this will be her's, too.
a screech as the vulture perched on the ogre's shoulder, stumbling, opens its wings for balance and removes itself; it has waited so long for a meal but, this one isn't ready yet.
water—she needs water.
zharille follows what she can of a river. it isn't much. as this splits in to different paths across the wasteland she follows it east for no real reason, her steps heavy and stride lurching, as if some kind of autonomic function exerts its own will upon her. in the back of her feral mind she knows that to stop is to die and that cannot happen.
there is only the open expanse of wasteland around her, for a time. it all looks the same. dry, dull, brown, gold, shimmering beneath heat she cannot abide but must withstand. she doesn't know how long she marches.
the vulture follows from a high altitude, its shadow barely registering across the scrubland.
when she finally must stop, it is in the shadow of a rising barrier of stone. zharille's mind, already slow to churn like the pouring of molasses, is worse off after the hours and hours and hours of toil. she makes the barest connection: palace, children, walls, fortress; are her children here? is that what has drawn her?
she smells water. greatwater? no.
but this will be her's, too.
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tell me the waves won't rise - by Zharille - September 13, 2024, 01:41 PM