Post by Alouette on Apr 8, 2010 22:09:35 GMT -6
Alouette, gentille Alouette! Alouette, je te plumerai!
Je te plumerai la tête! Et la tête! Alouette! Je te plumerai le bec!
Another autumn? Lark could have given off an exasperated sigh, committed herself to an angry stomp around the area or even found someone to whom she felt entirely obliged to fume to. But she would not. As much as she detested the cold, fruitless portion of the year which lacked warmth as well as the crisp, stark beauty that was winter, she could not help it. True, there were things that she could tweak: trees could be altered back to their former summer glory, creeks could be willed to thaw out of frost and trickle as nature's bells again. But that... well, it was a lot of work, and a girl of her age did not feel compelled to create without need as one in her youth might fancy. No, Lark would refrain. She was not the type to show off. Not anymore, anyway.
Scars covered her shoulders, the remnants of formerly grand cream-colored wings. She was bitter of the loss, but had grown to accept it in time. The power to heal them had been learned throughout the ages, but they - just as the trees she grew and the illnesses she healed - would eventually fade back to their former state. At best, Alouette could keep her wings an hour or two, enough to perhaps fly from one end of the island to the other, but never more. Occasionally she had thought on the topic of leaving this island, but the flight out of here was more than her short-lived magic could manage. Every time the wings fell away she was left with yet another layer of scars to mar her copper pelt, and each time she felt more and more bitter at the humans who had removed them from her.
With all of this laying thickly on her mind - the loss of summer and the loss of flight - little Lotte grew increasingly agitated. The sparse meadow in which she stood became annoying to her in its perpetually silent, abandoned ways. She paced. Her flaxen tail flicked back, forth. She picked up a trot, tail high slung in dedication to her Arab blood. A snort, a start at a rear. She turned, almost on the dime. The nodules of her sawed-off wing bones churned under her skin, extended out into some fleshy, claw-like structures. They thickened, filled out their own anatomy, filled out their feathers. During it all her feet danced in place in agitation. The whole process was horribly painful... tickling, burning.
Settled, the wings folded up. They ruffled and puffed as some bird content on its perch, spread out, flapped. A kick, body pulling almost immediately into a canter. Wings spread, but she did not rise up. The idea scared her. How long had it been? Ten years? Twenty? Was she strong enough? How did you do this again? She slid to a stop, wide-eyed. It's been too long.
Scars covered her shoulders, the remnants of formerly grand cream-colored wings. She was bitter of the loss, but had grown to accept it in time. The power to heal them had been learned throughout the ages, but they - just as the trees she grew and the illnesses she healed - would eventually fade back to their former state. At best, Alouette could keep her wings an hour or two, enough to perhaps fly from one end of the island to the other, but never more. Occasionally she had thought on the topic of leaving this island, but the flight out of here was more than her short-lived magic could manage. Every time the wings fell away she was left with yet another layer of scars to mar her copper pelt, and each time she felt more and more bitter at the humans who had removed them from her.
With all of this laying thickly on her mind - the loss of summer and the loss of flight - little Lotte grew increasingly agitated. The sparse meadow in which she stood became annoying to her in its perpetually silent, abandoned ways. She paced. Her flaxen tail flicked back, forth. She picked up a trot, tail high slung in dedication to her Arab blood. A snort, a start at a rear. She turned, almost on the dime. The nodules of her sawed-off wing bones churned under her skin, extended out into some fleshy, claw-like structures. They thickened, filled out their own anatomy, filled out their feathers. During it all her feet danced in place in agitation. The whole process was horribly painful... tickling, burning.
Settled, the wings folded up. They ruffled and puffed as some bird content on its perch, spread out, flapped. A kick, body pulling almost immediately into a canter. Wings spread, but she did not rise up. The idea scared her. How long had it been? Ten years? Twenty? Was she strong enough? How did you do this again? She slid to a stop, wide-eyed. It's been too long.
- Alouette
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