07-06-2022, 07:59 AM
The young mare called Myrna does not often leave her home, but when she does it is only to go to the Meadow. She knows the Meadow, had learned it with her mother, and it feels nearly as comfortable and familiar to her as the fields of Hyaline. Here she does not feel the heart-in-throat tension of the unknown, here she can simply blend in.
She is doing just that today - blending in.
Rather than her natural form - eye-catchingly pale, magnificently horned, impossibly pretty - she is trying on the shapes of others she comes across. It is a complex trick, capturing not only each detail but also the differences in shape, but it allows her to practice a more intricate type of shapeshifting. She’s not very good at it yet, having only begun to try a few weeks ago, and only on her infrequent trips to the Meadow, so there is no small amount of frustration.
It is after one such frustration, a repeated failure to capture a precise shade of lavender in a stranger’s mane, that Myrna comes across the pegasus.
She does not recognize Heda, her great-grandmother, and there is no reason for Heda to know her. Myrna looks like her mother, and her father had looked like his father, and almost everything that Lepis might have passed to her are gone entirely. Instead, Myrna sees only a pretty dun mare, with navy markings and feathered wings not too different from those that Myrna often wears.
“Would you mind if I try to copy your appearance?” She asks, her blue-grey eyes hopeful.
@Heda
She is doing just that today - blending in.
Rather than her natural form - eye-catchingly pale, magnificently horned, impossibly pretty - she is trying on the shapes of others she comes across. It is a complex trick, capturing not only each detail but also the differences in shape, but it allows her to practice a more intricate type of shapeshifting. She’s not very good at it yet, having only begun to try a few weeks ago, and only on her infrequent trips to the Meadow, so there is no small amount of frustration.
It is after one such frustration, a repeated failure to capture a precise shade of lavender in a stranger’s mane, that Myrna comes across the pegasus.
She does not recognize Heda, her great-grandmother, and there is no reason for Heda to know her. Myrna looks like her mother, and her father had looked like his father, and almost everything that Lepis might have passed to her are gone entirely. Instead, Myrna sees only a pretty dun mare, with navy markings and feathered wings not too different from those that Myrna often wears.
“Would you mind if I try to copy your appearance?” She asks, her blue-grey eyes hopeful.
@Heda