Post by Lasyia on Oct 27, 2005 21:12:22 GMT -5
Limbs carried her forth upon the new land, cream tainted tassel whisked over the maze carresed flanks of the fae. The undulating tangle of iron tresses blew about steadily in the lithe gust emerging over the horizon from the east. An unusual thing this equine was. She seeked companionship, yet feared the presence of others. It was not normal, she knew, but it was the way her heart felt, and that was what she went by. Her heart. Spotting other equines in the distance, she felt the same, cold sensation come creeping up on her. ‘Twas fear, she knew. For why she feared the others, though, she hadn’t a clue. The only elucidation was perhaps because she had matured alone, minus the company of others. Now that was going to change.
Waiting for something.
Lobes shot forth as a low tone was voiced to the equines afar, a placid, yet blithe rumble. Ligaments intersected as she proceeded, daggers placed neatly before her in somewhat of a pattern atop the loam. Crania was heightened in hope, auds perked forth, listening for an answering call. When none came, she let out a dejected sigh, banter stretched downward, maw inches from the sod. The long, feral whiskers skimmed over the loam as the four beated pace was presumed.
Waiting for time to go by.
The time passed wretchedly sluggish, the lustrous sphere of flames in the sky stationed above the land angrily, beating down upon the silven vixen. A somber cry was released, shrill and filled with anguish. Was it true? Was she not fit for the eyes of others to bare down upon? She imagined herself ugly, for her own reflection had never been seen. Yes, she assumed she was hideous, for she was always alone. Yet, she was not. Extensive, disentangled banner hung loosely from her crest, rolling out till it reached her shoulder, where it ended abruptly with a knot of split-ends. Murky plumage rested lightly upon her hocks, occasionally whisked over the icy flanks, strands stinging her croup. The sharp throb did not bother her, ‘twas natural to her. The coarse, yet fine locks were unmanned and biting, good to rid her pelt of the wretched bugs darting to and fro. Optics were a dulled russet, pupils a sharp ebony. The flints resting upon the loam as she halted had been shaded a rusty tinge by the dust, giving a weathered look about her. Gleaming, slate canvas was dappled with ebony and spotted with splotches of uneven alabaster coating, rings of ivory wreathed around her deep pools. Muzzle was tainted with swarthy, which faded away as one progressed up her dial. A dot of salmon was evident between her nares, just a speck flecked there for some reason unknown. Of course, the fae did not know of her hidden beauty, so she continued assuming that she was unsightly.
Waiting to find a new love.
As the hours past, one by one, she began growing wary. Time, yes, ‘twas a funny thing. Seconds ticking away into minutes, minutes rolling into hours, and hours to days, days to months, months to years, years to decades… it rolled on, never to cease, never pausing because it felt weary. No, it was constant, perhaps the only constant thing in the young mare’s life. Why was time measured? To keep track of how long life lagged on for? Metaphor did not know, and did not have much of a care for it, but it was something to ponder over, give her a purpose, although it was not a true purpose.
Waiting for life to go on.
Finally, she bored herself of thinking this way and uttered a last wail, voice breaking, her tone filled with sorrow. If only she was not so stupid, if only she knew how to communicate. If only she could possibly find the love of her life…
The wait will be over soon.
Waiting for something.
Lobes shot forth as a low tone was voiced to the equines afar, a placid, yet blithe rumble. Ligaments intersected as she proceeded, daggers placed neatly before her in somewhat of a pattern atop the loam. Crania was heightened in hope, auds perked forth, listening for an answering call. When none came, she let out a dejected sigh, banter stretched downward, maw inches from the sod. The long, feral whiskers skimmed over the loam as the four beated pace was presumed.
Waiting for time to go by.
The time passed wretchedly sluggish, the lustrous sphere of flames in the sky stationed above the land angrily, beating down upon the silven vixen. A somber cry was released, shrill and filled with anguish. Was it true? Was she not fit for the eyes of others to bare down upon? She imagined herself ugly, for her own reflection had never been seen. Yes, she assumed she was hideous, for she was always alone. Yet, she was not. Extensive, disentangled banner hung loosely from her crest, rolling out till it reached her shoulder, where it ended abruptly with a knot of split-ends. Murky plumage rested lightly upon her hocks, occasionally whisked over the icy flanks, strands stinging her croup. The sharp throb did not bother her, ‘twas natural to her. The coarse, yet fine locks were unmanned and biting, good to rid her pelt of the wretched bugs darting to and fro. Optics were a dulled russet, pupils a sharp ebony. The flints resting upon the loam as she halted had been shaded a rusty tinge by the dust, giving a weathered look about her. Gleaming, slate canvas was dappled with ebony and spotted with splotches of uneven alabaster coating, rings of ivory wreathed around her deep pools. Muzzle was tainted with swarthy, which faded away as one progressed up her dial. A dot of salmon was evident between her nares, just a speck flecked there for some reason unknown. Of course, the fae did not know of her hidden beauty, so she continued assuming that she was unsightly.
Waiting to find a new love.
As the hours past, one by one, she began growing wary. Time, yes, ‘twas a funny thing. Seconds ticking away into minutes, minutes rolling into hours, and hours to days, days to months, months to years, years to decades… it rolled on, never to cease, never pausing because it felt weary. No, it was constant, perhaps the only constant thing in the young mare’s life. Why was time measured? To keep track of how long life lagged on for? Metaphor did not know, and did not have much of a care for it, but it was something to ponder over, give her a purpose, although it was not a true purpose.
Waiting for life to go on.
Finally, she bored herself of thinking this way and uttered a last wail, voice breaking, her tone filled with sorrow. If only she was not so stupid, if only she knew how to communicate. If only she could possibly find the love of her life…
The wait will be over soon.
