The quaint proposal.

[Yurrechire]

((OOC: Set sometime between Lily Black and Galoo's adventure at the harvest festival, and Cutty's eventual arrival back in Prontera.))
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Life is best spent in motion.

With the neck stretched parallel to the ground, a bronze shadow streaked over the tan earth. It was not the sort of ambling gait the peco preferred, nor the occasional squawk-filled sprint towards the foe, but a true, mile-burning gallop. The bird could not travel this way for long without consequence: sometimes, there was simply no choice. On his back, the rider flattened, aiming to make herself as small as possible, clutching at the pommel with stiffening hands. Pale as a ghost in the face.

Before them spread the shrub-lands, interspersed with rocky outcroppings. Emerald line of the deciduous forest trimmed the sky.

Behind them, a set of tracks stretched to the horizon, bordered by splatterings of blood drops, and (less frequently), by discarded glass vials. Some of the latter had a drop or two of harsh white liquid coalesce on the sides- potions of health, the last line of defense against bleeding out completely.

From the origin of the tracks, a thin line of smoke stretched into the clear blue sky. The campfire coals, scattered during the night’s unexpected attack, finally ignited the least blood-soaked of the leaf litter. Flames embraced the ancient oak, covering the signs of the struggle, of a burnt meal, licking the hastily hidden body.

“This is why we’re losing, Cookie dear. Too many souls, who do not understand that living tools are to be shaped and honed, not discarded. Too many souls, who look into the dark, and are unhinged by it,” The whisper was hoarse. She had been whispering intermittently to the bird since their departure earlier this morning. Since the bird had dispatched a former ally with a single hatchet-beak blow to the face. McWren had a strong, motherly devotion to people whom she considered hers. It evaporated swiftly, when the said people tried to take advantage of it. It turned to cold fury, when faced with betrayal, “Silly blondie, should not have drawn that knife...”

The woman glanced back, down over her shoulder, to the dark, wet stain covering much of her leg. It was finally coloring the last tiny pocket of blue near the robe’s hem. The deep indigo of the robe and the delicate thistle motif around the collar were what initially drew her to the impulse purchase at the dusty bazaar of Morroc, over a year ago. She gave up on scrubbing out the blood stains after only a week.

The embroidery lasted longer, but it, too, fled from the darkening fabric, absent-mindedly plucked out by McWren’s own fingers. Soft threads- discarded, fed to the winds.