Force-claiming is allowed here once a week per character, as is blocking force-claims by the Peak/Lagoon (as a whole) once a week. Rollover is on Sundays.
| PLEASE EXPLAIN TO ME HOW AN ENEMY
could ever look this good |
| Everything goes black after the current takes her away.
Marceline does not remember being washed onto the beach. She does not remember Senu crying over her prone figure, or how the tide crept in and swept her limp body to sea. She does not know how she didn't drown and die, she only remembers waking to the warming caress of the sun on her face, a gentle breeze rustling through her hair, and one question in her mind: have I died? But death, she thinks, would not hurt so much. The only thing she can focus on is the throbbing in her leg, each sluggish beat of her heart bringing about another wave of pain. If she were dead, she wouldn't feel anything, and so it must stand to reason that she is not dead yet. What a fucking shame. A small voice in her head screams at her to get up then. You're not dead yet but you can't die here! it says. But she is so very tired, and all she wants to do is sleep. Yet the screaming in her mind is incessant, and eventually Marceline is forced to concede to its shrill demands. She peels her eyes open and musters her energy, heaving herself awkwardly onto all fours - or rather, all threes. She's scared to look at her leg and see what damage mother nature has wrought on her once perfect body. But eventually she forces herself, tenderly extending her foreleg out and wincing against the pain. Her pastern is swollen and bruised, her hoof hanging limply below. But no bone has broken the skin - a small blessing. She attempts to put weight on the hoof and recoils instantly, a ragged cry torn from her throat as a searing pain engulfs her leg. So much for hoping it was only a bad sprain. When the breath has returned to her lungs and her mind has cleared, Marceline takes stock of her surroundings. A verdant meadow is sprawled out before her, stretching for a mile in every direction. She is familiar enough with the Crossing to know that she has washed up in one of the many places she does not want to be: the Commons. This is no place for a lone mare, even an injured one like herself. It's crucial to get and stay away, at least while she heals. Marceline sets her sights in the direction of the Falls. As she limps through the meadow she gets a sense that she is being watched, her skin prickling uncomfortably as a pair of eyes fall on her. She glances to her left and spots a worried-looking mare staring at her. The once-was queen's first reaction is anger: why the hell are you looking at me?! But then she considers what a poor sight she must be, limping along covered in dirt and blood, and her anger morphs into shame and self-pity. She shrinks under the woman's gaze and makes a staggered beeline for the forests of the Falls, wanting nothing more than to put space between her and the rest of the world and lick her wounds in peace. From then on Marceline becomes quite proficient at avoiding others. She can't bear to be pitied like some injured animal. Not only that, she is desperate to not let the greedy gazes of the herd stallions fall on her, especially as autumn draws closer and closer. She has already suffered enough humiliation for one lifetime - she will not allow herself to be degraded further and claimed like some common wench. Not that she'd be of much use to any man now. So becomes Marceline's life: hobbling from place to place, doing the bare minimum to stay alive and keep her broken heart beating. Supple curves wither away into sharp angles, bone protruding ghoulishly against taut skin. Her coat which once gleamed with health and beauty is now dull and caked in dirt, her mane and tail a knotted mess. She looks every part the disgraced queen that she is. But as the weeks and then months go by, Marceline becomes used to her newfound solitude. After awhile she even grows to enjoy the silence. It allows her to think. She thinks about what she should do, where she should go. She knows he is not fit to make the swim back to Salem and the chances of anyone coming to look for her are slim. They're probably celebrating, she thinks bitterly. They're probably glad I'm gone. And as much as she wants to hope that Senu will come for her she knows the brindled mare's fears will likely keep her grounded on the desert island. Marceline can't bring herself to blame Senu or be angry at her for that. But without being able to make it back to Salem, her dreams and plans for the future are hopeless. Even if she does make it back, there is no possibility that she could fight her way to the top of Salem's anarchic political ladder with a busted leg. Smooth talk and seduction can only get her so far, and she has a feeling Nyimara is not wont to fall for the charms of others. As much as it pains (and frankly pisses her off) to admit it, the crown will have to go to someone else now. Maybe Rafe will grow a pair and step up, or maybe one of her unambitious children will finally get a fire lit under their ass. Either way, she wouldn't be around to see it. A murder of crows begins to shriek from the treetops then, the roaring of the falls and their ceaseless cawing clashing into a discordant symphony that breaks Marceline from her thoughts. She glances skyward and realizes that evening has snuck up on her. The sun is beginning to set, turning the sky above a lovely shade of lilac. Marceline takes one last drink from the crystalline waters before turning and making her way back down one of the smaller paths that connects the Falls to the Commons. She'd chosen the path because it is less traveled than the others and affords her an opportunity to stay hidden. So far luck has been on her side and she'd not run into anyone else on her comings or goings. But Fate enjoys proving what a fickle bitch she can be. Marceline's luck finally runs out this particular evening. As she approaches a bend in the path she hears the telltale rustling of leaves and branches as they bend and snap under the weight of a body, followed closely by the beat of hooves against loose dirt. Someone is coming down the trail towards her. Marceline stops short, lips pressing into a tight line and ears flattening. She's in no mood for socializing, and the possibility that an unpleasantly familiar face will round that corner sends her heartbeat skyrocketing. What if Rafe stumbles across her? Or Fell, or Riesling? Any one of them would be more likely to tear her head off than stop and have a chat with her. She glances first to her left, then to her right, looking for any way out or around. But there is only tangled underbrush and imposing trees flanking her on either side, providing no opportunity for escape lest she risk becoming tangled and hurting herself more. Marceline braces herself and continues to limp down the path - the only way out was through, it seemed. As the sound of hooves draws closer she prays silently that the stranger - for she hopes desperately that this is indeed a stranger - will simply pass her by and she can be on her way. | ♕
the once-was queen of the hills |