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Post by data-bull on Oct 23, 2016 13:40:15 GMT -6
Cutting locks, Letting go Participants: data-bull as Sonador // Queerly as Cualli>> With his return to Freedom's Flight, Sonya has a lot to catch up on. He decides to seek out a horse he once trusted more than any other in the hopes of making amends. << |
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Post by data-bull on Oct 23, 2016 14:31:36 GMT -6
Sonador | Vagabond | The Flock
[Post 1 | Word Count: 269 ] |
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Post by Queerly on Dec 19, 2016 9:20:54 GMT -6
Cualli
And oh, from the rubble you'll sing a rebel's song
When Izel had returned to them bearing news of a child sacrifice and the ensuing riots, Cualli had warred with her emotions. Certainly there had been horror, an indescribable anguish for the life cut so tragically short. There had not been surprise, though, for Cualli knew better than most how tragically barbaric the state of Aquore would become. When actions were committed in the name of righteousness, perpetrators became blind to the abhorrent. Cualli had wondered if they lied to themselves, once, but now she knew: framed by divine will, monstrosities were twisted into justified virtue. It had only been a matter of time, but even seeing the act on the horizon had not prepared her for the bitterness of it. It stuck to her throat, cloying, thick like tar. Sometimes, it was hard to breathe.
Yet there had been some measure of relief, too, and for that Cualli was guilty. It was wrong to find a silver lining in a child’s death, and yet a silver lining lied there within, apathetic to the tragedy proceeding it. The sacrifice had been the catalyst, the spark that the people of the Talori herd needed. For many, the slaying of an innocent had shattered the normalization of ritual slaughter. The people had risen up. For the first time, a rebel song sang from within the heart of the Talori herd itself, and her members had cried, no more. Cualli had rejoiced in the uprising and tempered the bitterness that it had not arrived sooner.
Many will join our cause. She had thought. She’d been certain. The riots had been rampant; rumors spoke of mayhem knocking on the palace door. Undoubtedly their infiltrators would return to the Eyrie with dozens of fresh insurgents, eager for the fight and hungry for change.
And so when their people returned with only a paltry hoof-full, Cualli was confused. “Surely there’s more.” She had murmured, more to herself than to her husband, who had watched the group ascend with characteristic impassivity. Perseus never showed his cards until he was certain of the play, but Cualli allowed the disappointment to color her face, tugging her muzzle into a small frown.
Well, she thought at length, a few is better than none. After all, it had been only a scrappy few to found the Flock. Their cause was accustomed to working with limited resources and low odds.
Making peace with that thought, Cualli smoothed her expression into something milder, kinder. The newcomers were undoubtedly weary and in need of a friendly face. Now that she was older, a mother twice (and soon to be thrice) over, Cualli’s time in the field had grown scarce, and in its place she’d become something of a matronly figure to their small group of revolutionaries. She was eager to meet the greenhorns, to get to know and understand them, perhaps hear their story. She raised a hood, intending to approach- and froze.
“Sonador?” She mouthed, unable to produce sound in the midst of her shock. Beside her she felt Perseus stiffen, and without looking at him she knew her husband’s gaze had hardened by a small measure. It meant nothing. Perseus could play the part of the detached, unbiased leader with a renegade at his hooves; Cualli could see nothing but an old friend sorely missed.
“Sonador.” She cried again, and this time her voice carried across the thin air. She leapt forward as though she possessed the wings of her fellows, as though she might very well take flight; certainly her heart felt light enough. She landed with a grunt, the dust flurrying around her hooves as she took off as quickly as she’d hit the ground, cantering to where the exhausted bay stood on weak legs.
“Oh.” She breathed. “Oh, look at you, what have they done to you? Sonador, my friend- your wings-!” Her golden neck stretched up to wrap around his, and she noticed that it was too thin, the muscle wasted away. Her heart bruised at the sight of his ribs, his hipbones. “Your pretty hair.” She murmured, leaning back to look at him. Her throat grew tight, emotion swimming just behind her eyes. “You’ve been through so much.”
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Post by data-bull on Dec 21, 2016 5:57:22 GMT -6
Sonador | Vagabond | The Flock
[Post 2 | 340 Words] |
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