we're always running scared but holding knives
Remi may be trying to look like who he had been, once upon a time, but unfortunately Isla can't do that herself - not emotionally or physically. She's no longer the ethereal, willowy Ascended, pale as the moon and still as deep water; with fresh blood pumping through a heart that beats even though it's broken, she's all curves and muscle, skin freckled and tanned, fair hair further streaked with sunlight.
One might expect her to be clad in a tiger's stripes for this particular expedition, but there's something right about feeling the world beneath her bare feet and bleached bone against her fingertips. Hunting something and nothing in particular, the afternoon light falls in dusky shafts through the canopy overhead, lending further (if unintentional) camouflage to the Remedy.
With her skirts hitched up around her knees and her hair half braided out of her face, she inches out along the bough of a tree, leg stretched for balance. At the end of one of the more spindly branches, a colourful songbird is taking a rest. It might be permanent, if Isla has anything to do with it.
One might expect her to be clad in a tiger's stripes for this particular expedition, but there's something right about feeling the world beneath her bare feet and bleached bone against her fingertips. Hunting something and nothing in particular, the afternoon light falls in dusky shafts through the canopy overhead, lending further (if unintentional) camouflage to the Remedy.
With her skirts hitched up around her knees and her hair half braided out of her face, she inches out along the bough of a tree, leg stretched for balance. At the end of one of the more spindly branches, a colourful songbird is taking a rest. It might be permanent, if Isla has anything to do with it.
Isla
