Meadow

Bagheera has always possessed what is often referred to as an old soul. Wisdom beyond her years has long been a gift dipped in acidic poison - there was seldom a time she can recall of a joyous and carefree childhood. Crushing perception was always a daunting opponent - the ability to perceive the nuances camouflaged behind seemingly normal behaviors. Where the silver woman is no stranger to brutality, her ebony counterpart understands the capability of restraint and the hefty gravity easily placed upon words. Wars are seldom won with bloodshed alone, yet do not take this to mean her incapable of enjoying the chaos and destruction by which battles abide.

She does not know the aspect of motherhood, and perhaps she will skip that seemingly expected life stage. The prospect of children has never particularly excited her - the unrepairable damage caused by her own parents was enough to dissuade any thought of a happily ever after. Independent would be a wonderful word to describe the midnight girl, for she escaped from the bowels of hell and never turned back. Yet the leaving along is not an action capable of annihilating the haunting recollections she carries. She is doomed to forever wander, the distance infinite, but she will not find the reprieve she craves. The world may be her oyster, but is is also her jailer, tethering her to realm that presents only isolation and a burgeoning despair.

If only the encroachment of spring would also mean the banishment of everything cold and unfeeling, not just limiting itself to the exile of winter's grasp. How lovely it would be to simply usher out bottomless emotions threatening to consume you on the nearest breeze. The words of the other maiden once again pry her from reverie. Dainty head dips in a nod, agreeing with the words spoken. The nooks and crannies stuffed within foreboding stone walls were once her only home; she sometimes even regrets leaving their damp embrace. Her eyes catch the other's gaze, meeting the stare, almost beckoning her to continue her studies. She may be a dark abyss, but she hold no unforgivable secrets hidden away from the light of day.

The champagne woman articulates again, and these are the words she finds surprising. The extension of a proverbial olive branch - the offer of a home - was not the expected outcome from this chance meeting. A soft smirk crosses her lips; a pitiful attempt for a smile. "I am not sure government is for tha likes ah me, but I would be willna try. I am Bagheera. Perhaps ye could show me tha way to yer...Peak?" She is slightly perturbed that supposed sanctuary would so easily welcome strangers with open arms, but she sees no other option. She could follow this mare to a place of possibility, or she could stay behind and continue to squander her youth mired in tumultuous memories. Today she chooses, like the hinting of spring, to float on upon the gentlest of hesitantly warming winds.