we've been on the run (q edited) IP: 188.8.131.52 Posted on July 5, 2011 at 10:45:30 AM by pevensie
Pevensie has known magic. She has none herself and probably never will, but she knows how it feels to be involved with magic. It petrifies her. The wounds that spells weave run deeper than mortal cuts, probably the only deeper inflictions are those caused by raw emotion. Before she has even brought herself fully into the circle that has gathered, she stops dead and eyes the coloured horse. It does not strike her as odd, something to be ridiculed and enjoyed, as perhaps it would have done beforehand. Now it strikes a cold bullet of fear into her heart. A familiar tingling illuminates her skin. She can sense what this horse is.
The buckskin also has a sense that this creature is not pure magic. Some of it must be mortal – or maybe that is optimistic hope. Reluctantly she drags her lead feet into the group, never letting her eyes slip from the presence of the green horse. When Aelina is finished, Pevensie swears under her breath.
Her lip circles as the outstandingly bright mare picks up the running and informs them of their task. A hard fist curls in her stomach, because half of her can predict what is coming next. She sickens as the world around her disappears. Though she can hardly remember it, in a dreamlike sense, it feels as if she has been here before.
The young mare can hardly bare to listen to Evrae. All she wants to do is go back to solid ground and friendly faces. She closes her eyes, willing them to open and find herself back in the Falls. Sadly, she opens them to the eerie darkness and can only manage one fleeting look to Nezara before the world vanishes and she finds herself alone.
It is cold. The room is dimly lit and two knightly figures stand guard over two heavy wooden doors. Pevensie realised with a dark frown that even if she could pass the guards, she would have to hope that one of them world open the door for her. Horses don’t have fingers. With a sigh, she looks around the room for clues. It is blank, dank and thoroughly unpleasant. She grimaces again and frowns at the metallic figurines. A chill caresses her spine. One looks just about as welcoming as the other. By sight alone, the two could not be separated.
The young mare buried herself deep in thought. How could one tell truth from lie with only one question? Slumping to the cool stone ground, she nestles in both knees underneath her and prepares to spend a long while in thought. If she had had a pipe, she would have smoked it.
Quite abruptly, she standings up again some time later. She walks up to the guard on the left, peering curiously under the visor of his helmet before asking; “Am I five years old?” she asks, then once receiving the answer, turns and repeats the question to the guard on the right.
Then she stands back, heart hammering and threatening to burst out of her ribcage.
P E V E N S I E
lovechild of degradation & flintfoot
daughter of the Falls'