i'll follow you into the dark {open}

[Io]

Io.

Early morning silence. The day is so young that not even birds have awoken, and an eerie silence shrouds the place like a blanket, so quiet and thick that it almost hurts, the lack of noise unnerving. The trees rise tall and gnarled, the gouges in the earthy bark telling the story of this world, the triumphs and the losses, these trees have seen so much, so many changes, so many lives lost and found under the once leafy folds, now almost bare, though some still clinging on to the last remnants of autumn in gold and red. The floor is damp, mottled with the pattern of old leaves, dead and decaying, compacted together to form a browning pathway. Mist still lies light near the ground, stirred a little by the wind that has almost dropped for the first time in days. It swirls up in the half light, looking like wood smoke, before settling back down to quilt the forest floor.

There is a rustling from the trees and the sound of cracking twigs and sodden leaves flicked up in clumps. A small deer springs across the path leaping through the air so gracefully it almost seems to be floating. But only for a second. And then in the blink of an eye it is gone again, as quickly as it came, bounding off between the rough trunks. The sound dies away again in a moment more, and once again the silence falls back. Well, almost. The sound is only slight, but even the drop of a pine needle can be heard through this thick, pressing silence. It is the sound of exhaling, deep and slow and even. A form makes its way up the path, outline blurred through the fog, a shadowy figure, brown like the leaves that are so abundant in this place but with a definite red hue. The figure becomes lighter as it steps daintily into the half light, and the red becomes more vivid, bright, like a reddened sunset. A mare emerges out of the mist, her breath steaming and spiralling up towards the canopy so far above. The mane is thick, a shock of russet hair, infused with the odd golden strand. Her ears, blue tipped, flick from side to side, almost nervously, but there is nothing to hear in this place. She stands still now, shifting her weight from one hindleg to the other, revealing muscles, bunched, tense, prepared for flight at the slightest noise.

She’s not really sure how she’s found herself here, through come to think of it, she’s not really sure about much, these days. She knows where she is though – Paris – the great city. All foals know the tale, the fall of the humans, and how their empires were left to decay, to be taken once again back into the belly of the earth, proof that the she will only lend her resources for so long before she demands them back again, regardless of the price to pay. But now, now it is impossible to tell that once upon a time this place was known the world around, famous for the joy and prosperity that could be found there.

She sees a flurry of movement on the periphery and startles with a snort, leaping sideways, the whites of her amber eyes visible in the growing light. Just a bird, taking flight from the undergrowth, thick with ferns and bracken and clawing thorns. A few moments pass before her breathing slows, and she lowers her head to inhale the heady scent of the earth. There is little sustenance in this place, save the few roots that poke their way through the greying underbrush, and they taste brackish and bitter still. Though hunger was gnawing its way through her stomach, she would wait. But what next? She had spent all this time running, as far away as she could from her homeland, but for what, what life was there here? The outlook seemed rather duller now that it had done those many months ago. A sigh. Why was everywhere so empty? It felt as though she was the last horse to walk the earth, destined for an eternity alone.
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word count; 699
ooc; christ, i'm out of practise, hopefully this isn't too crappy that nobody will want to reply, aha