She has never left the Jungle before, but she is still quite young. Her mother was well into old age by the time she ventured from the hall of vines and heat. Aoi had told her stories of her life as they roved the Jungle together.
That was before the war. That was before her mother was stolen into the jaws of a hellhound without even a trace of blood to confirm her death.
Sitra has tried not to dwell on the events of the war that left her motherless at such a young age. Leaving the Jungle to explore new worlds (or worlds new to her) seems just the cure. In fact, when the Plains open up to her and the oppressive humidity vanishes, Sitra runs as fast as she can for the first time in her entire life. Her witch knotted mane whips against foreign desert winds. Her lungs fill with air breathed by the ancients, but it all feels fresh and untouched.
She tires eventually, and the rest of her journey is kept at a moderate pace, slowed by rolling foothills and climbing altitude. When a dense forest envelopes her, she feels almost relieved - almost as if she is home. But, the Jungle voices are many miles away, and this forest is filled with other, less volatile sounds. In fact, this forest is nearly silent compared to the Amazons.
Nevertheless, Sitra bends and weaves through the conifers until she comes upon a stranger standing in a small clearing: a filly not much younger than herself.
“Hello,” she says with a smile trailing across her lips. “Is this your home?”
lyrae.
mute daughter of chronic & verse |
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