Post by Lórien on Feb 16, 2006 19:21:40 GMT -5
My Lórien is from no thick breed, her hierarchy lies within the confounds of a tall slender breed. She is of Calabrese and nothing more, nothing less. Her own breed as a long varied history, being a descended on horses originally found in the foreign lands of Italy prior to the founding of Rome. However, the breed’s characteristics started to evolve through the crossing Arab blood from the Bourbon period with both Andalusian and Thoroughbred stock. The breed originated in the region of Calabria in Southern Spain, from where it derives its name. During the middle Ages the Calabrese was famed for its spirit, a favorite choice for nights. All this because it was a spirited horse, strong enough to cope with the weight of armor and grueling distances they were forced to travel. Then with the new introduction of the Arabian, Andalusian, English Thoroughbred and Hackney blood, the breed further evolved. The thoroughbred blood had improved the breed adding quality and refinement, while the Arabian blood maintains the breed’s characteristics, toughness and their ability to withstand great distances. In appearance they have a refined head with a straight and somewhat convex profile. The neck is in perfect proportion with the body, and is well shapes and muscular while still managing to be quite slender. The chest is broad and deep and the shoulders sloping and smooth, allowing for good action and a quick, spring like action in the hind quarters for a short get away or perhaps an unusually lofty jump. They are compact through the body, with a short and strong back, muscular and sloping croup. They have slender but muscular legs with strong, well defined tendons, along with naturally well-formed feet. A rare combination, Lórien is one of three multihued Calabrese ever to have distinct patches of different color, and still have an unsullied blood line. Although Calabrese are generally 16 hands, our Lórien has exceeded that height to the point of 17.3 hands.
The dirt in their arena is quite dry, the parched soil rises in small puffs of russet powder, forming diminutive flecks of dibre scattered haphazardly across her slender legs. The sad grey clouds that crowd above them seem oblivious to the soil’s dire need of nurturing with the glorious fluid only they can provide. Yet Lórien does not mind, my star-child calm and refined. Her lithesome physique is bathed in pale-purple moon-light. The novel sprouts shying away from violet radiance. Through the shadows her amethyst eyes revolve, catching the mauve shine; the plum smolders of star-dust dance across the tender small of her back. Her hooves are dark and black, although at this point you are unable to tell from the cloud of dust that rises above, shielding her pale grey legs like an auburn veil. Blossom petals shy away from moon-wash; in a flush of sultry, brackish wind a bushel of tiny blue-grey flora are pressed against the bark of tree, their brilliant virgin petals flaking from the olive roots that wedge them securely into the crackling sod.
Parted lips, quivering gently, traced the deep engraved lines that traced down the length of the tree. From an open wound; a gelatinous red-gold syrup lathers across the twisted surface of bark. (note the way it oozes from the open wound, a miniscule etching.) The burgundy liquor slowly crawls it’s way down the tree-skin; following the riveted spaces, like a river of bronze fluid; flowing down to meet her lips compressed against tawny bark. The fluid has a bitter sweet taste that lingers on the tip of her tongue for quiet a while; its viscous form strategically positioned on her upper lip, just out of reach. This does not bother her and instead in a flush of leg over leg, she raises a hoof, hesitating as it hangs above wet-land and mud-path carved from many passages through the ancient forest; fully furnished with wild-fern and grey-blue blossoms that flourish beneath the nurturing shade and shadow, moon-washed melody and night-wish.
Blossom petals shy away from moon-wash; in a flush of sultry, brackish wind she was swept closer to him. Pale grey-blue against brown; her narrow face pressed against his broad neck. Her own, quiet, green-gold eyes bore into his, a deep toffee color, vaguely dimmer, more muted than the surrounding skin, flecked with little scars; as moon-wash bends through them, his eyes flashing a deep green-gold hue, similar to her own. The same oppressive air-stream coils a long dark tendril; his enigmatic russet-green eyes. Pale gold lips quivered gently, parted as they gently graze the edge of his profuse neck. Beneath her pale, ample lips she can feel the tender skin on shoulder tremor somewhat. A subtle smile creases across her lips; her touch no more then a butterfly’s kiss against tender back-brown flesh.
“Hello.” She counters casually, her shimmering green-gold eyes boring into his; a deep olive like before; as only she could distinguish this miniscule detail, or the way the crook of his nose is gently flecked with white, or how the length of his whiskers fade into grey. she remained calm and quite content against Belagio. She does not complain or peruse the issue further; instead she rests her narrow head against his ample shoulder, practically ingesting his rich cologne of lemon-grass and lilac-bud.
we are made of stardust;[/size]
[/right]
[ ooc ] sorry about the suckie post [/ooc][/color]
The dirt in their arena is quite dry, the parched soil rises in small puffs of russet powder, forming diminutive flecks of dibre scattered haphazardly across her slender legs. The sad grey clouds that crowd above them seem oblivious to the soil’s dire need of nurturing with the glorious fluid only they can provide. Yet Lórien does not mind, my star-child calm and refined. Her lithesome physique is bathed in pale-purple moon-light. The novel sprouts shying away from violet radiance. Through the shadows her amethyst eyes revolve, catching the mauve shine; the plum smolders of star-dust dance across the tender small of her back. Her hooves are dark and black, although at this point you are unable to tell from the cloud of dust that rises above, shielding her pale grey legs like an auburn veil. Blossom petals shy away from moon-wash; in a flush of sultry, brackish wind a bushel of tiny blue-grey flora are pressed against the bark of tree, their brilliant virgin petals flaking from the olive roots that wedge them securely into the crackling sod.
Parted lips, quivering gently, traced the deep engraved lines that traced down the length of the tree. From an open wound; a gelatinous red-gold syrup lathers across the twisted surface of bark. (note the way it oozes from the open wound, a miniscule etching.) The burgundy liquor slowly crawls it’s way down the tree-skin; following the riveted spaces, like a river of bronze fluid; flowing down to meet her lips compressed against tawny bark. The fluid has a bitter sweet taste that lingers on the tip of her tongue for quiet a while; its viscous form strategically positioned on her upper lip, just out of reach. This does not bother her and instead in a flush of leg over leg, she raises a hoof, hesitating as it hangs above wet-land and mud-path carved from many passages through the ancient forest; fully furnished with wild-fern and grey-blue blossoms that flourish beneath the nurturing shade and shadow, moon-washed melody and night-wish.
Blossom petals shy away from moon-wash; in a flush of sultry, brackish wind she was swept closer to him. Pale grey-blue against brown; her narrow face pressed against his broad neck. Her own, quiet, green-gold eyes bore into his, a deep toffee color, vaguely dimmer, more muted than the surrounding skin, flecked with little scars; as moon-wash bends through them, his eyes flashing a deep green-gold hue, similar to her own. The same oppressive air-stream coils a long dark tendril; his enigmatic russet-green eyes. Pale gold lips quivered gently, parted as they gently graze the edge of his profuse neck. Beneath her pale, ample lips she can feel the tender skin on shoulder tremor somewhat. A subtle smile creases across her lips; her touch no more then a butterfly’s kiss against tender back-brown flesh.
“Hello.” She counters casually, her shimmering green-gold eyes boring into his; a deep olive like before; as only she could distinguish this miniscule detail, or the way the crook of his nose is gently flecked with white, or how the length of his whiskers fade into grey. she remained calm and quite content against Belagio. She does not complain or peruse the issue further; instead she rests her narrow head against his ample shoulder, practically ingesting his rich cologne of lemon-grass and lilac-bud.
l ó r i e n
[/i][/size]we are made of stardust;[/size]
[/right]
[ ooc ] sorry about the suckie post [/ooc][/color]
