the heart

Foxglove Monroe · 01-02-2012, 03:36 AM

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All welcome, but please only one or two, and fast-replies would be super appreciated! <3 455 words.

Adorned in her usual clothing, Foxglove thought that perhaps she looked out of place in the tribe. The other members tended to be decorated, all the same, but with feathers and skins. These things seemed so different, so foreign, compared to the flashy scarves and corsets. Solemn jade eyes studied the pale hands that were stretched out in front of her, fingers pointing to the heavens and her palms feeling the warmth of the Great Fire. In this two-legged form, her fingers did not look much different than anyone else's, though perhaps a bit narrow in comparison. But then, she thought, her paws were not shaped differently in the feral form, either.

It was her other features that distinguished her as what she was, a wolfdog, the bastard canine. Her blood had wronged her so much during the tyrant Maska's reign as tribe-leader, and though she had once been proud to look like her mother in a twisted way that defied the way her mother ignored her more than the others, Foxglove had found herself wishing that she had taken after her father more, like Maggie had. If she had only looked more like a wolf, if her dog heritage had not betrayed her as such, would she have been imprisoned as she had been, to be freed only in the wake of bloodshed? That was not what she wanted for her life.

And so her eyes traveled down the slender hands she held up to the warmth, the heart of AniWaya, to study the bracelets of bare skin she wore on each wrist. Her dog heritage had caused this. She had not been aware of the prejudices here, but they apparently did exist on some level. Just because Maska and Dawali were gone, she could hardly count on no one else in the tribe sharing the opinion of her species. Ayasha had defended herself and her tribe, naively so. There would always be unjust things in the world. Had she not been shown that countless times by now? It was important to simply move past them, to determine another path that might avoid the same hurts. She would change. Adapt.

So lost in the dancing flames and the study of her hands, Foxglove gasped sharply when she felt something warm and large touch her shoulder, rest against her neck, and she stiffened for a moment before she realized it was only her mare. Withdrawing her hands from the warmth, the gypsy girl spun on her heels, wrapping her lithe arms around the champagne horse's neck. "You know, you still do not have a name," she whispered softly the the horse, though she was certain the horse could not understand her words. It hardly mattered.

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