--running from the reaper-- | --vephar--

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[atrb=style, color: #696969; text-align: justify;] action • thought • "speech" When death stares a weakened being in the face, that creature can do nothing but stare back. Immobilized by fear and legs grounded by immovable weights, they cannot turn and run or look away. They are forced to continually train their gaze upon those glowing eyes, peripheral vision dangerously aware of the tendrils of darkness swirling and toiling at their sides, creeping closer and closer as they stalked forth to claim their prey. They can do nothing but wait for it to wash over them and send them to eternal rest, whether it be to heaven or hell or none of the above. On the other hand, when death is untimely and stares a more stubborn being in the face, the creature does nothing but resist. The being does nothing but backpedal against the weights of their feet and make an endless effort to escape their 'undeserved' death. The tendrils of darkness around them coil and hiss at the flying hooves crashing around them threateningly. The swirling appendages of death slither to the side like snakes, searching for an opening but finding little to work with. They can do nothing but watch and wait for their prey to weaken. Her hooves thundered over the roots of the forest floor, stirring dust and leaf debris, leaving them stumbling back to the ground in her wake. The sun beat down without mercy through every gap in the trees, no matter how minuscule. Light rained down upon her through these gaps, and she shuddered at every slight change in temperature as the scorching sun drew its pure, warm fingers down her spine as she passed. It was hot in general, but it was a bit cooler in shade of the trees, and she was grateful for the relief. Her nares flared in her panicked sprint, air blasting from them as she galloped toward where she had been told the graveyard was. Where she had been told that the Gravekeeper was. Even now, when her body was lathered with sweat and the salty excrete rolled into and stung her eyes, she didn't stop. Her paranoia made her feel like her life was already draining away, even though she had been told she had about a month to live. No one had mentioned a cure of any sort, so now the stoic warrior had become a panicking femme, desperate to hold onto her life. If she had been facing a murderer instead of a disease, she would have stubbornly stood up to the being and held her ground until the end, but fighting an enemy that she couldn't see on her own was not something she wished to do. She had heard of the Gravekeeper long ago, but had thought nothing of it. Now, her search for survival was driving her to seek him out and find him on her own. Her frenzied pace slowed as she began to notice small piles of stones and various other relics in the distance. She drew to a walk, sides heaving and labored breath rasping from thirst and fatigue. Her mane was soaked with the sweat that streamed from her pores, causing it to divide into damp cords of hair and cling desperately to her neck. words; 538 muse; 08/10 ooc; Sorry for the crud-post. For those on an outside perspective, this thread is making use of liquid time and is taking place before Astyn finds the Vessay, the Carincula plant, and obtains a Carnicula Stone.