06-28-2016, 11:09 AM
What has Fart been doing in his day to day? Existing, merely that. He isn’t exactly the life of the party, nor the attendee of any parties if we are to be perfectly honest. It isn’t that he doesn’t want to attend them, just that he is not often in the possession of such an invitation. Most days, Fart wanders. Through the Field, across the Meadow, lurking in the general common areas, and only sometimes does he have an itch to pass through the Forest. He is quite unremarkable in his travels, blending with the backdrop most seasons and otherwise being definitively ignored when he does not. Lime green roan is nothing special when it comes to the vast array of colored pelts in Beqanna. I mean, it is nice enough if you like green but aside from that it is as far as Fart’s beauty goes.
While he was lucky really, to be green, it was the only speck of mercy Fart had received from birth. The little hybrid babe had been born with no mane whatsoever. Not a bit of fluff or a stray hair to cover his bare neck, which come to find out, looks extremely odd when everyone around you has flowing, luscious locks. Now Fart had a tail of course, just the tail, and a nice one too if he might say so. Of course, you’re bound to be partial to the only shock of lime green hair you have, no matter where it might have sprouted on your body. In addition to the unfortunate no-mane incident, Fart has what some refer to as ‘hare-lip’, a rather off-putting physical mouth deformity.
It could be worse really, luckily his palette was mostly fused together on the inside, the smallest of gaps that made it difficult to eat as well as made one prone to choking if not careful. His lip though, no such luck, it was obviously parted just off-center. As though someone had taken a sharp knife to the soft flesh and sliced it right up to his nostril.
Needless to say the boy Fart grew into the man Fart with not so much as a friend to call his own. Life was lonely, quite sad too, surely if anyone had given him a bit of a chance they could see he would be a good a friend. Maybe they didn’t like his lip, or his hairless head and neck. Maybe it was because Fart had always been a bit thin due to his condition, more often than not he could use a bit of weight, especially in the winter months. Poor nutrition mean that his coat wasn’t as grand and shiny as some, that it was not as pristine as it could be if he could properly eat without fear of death. Then again it could be that, well, he was a bit smelly. No one knows why really, he had always been that way. As if something inside him had gone a bit sour, been left out too long or forgotten.
Recently, probably by accident on all accounts, Fart had somehow managed to get a mare pregnant with child. His child. He himself isn’t really sure how he managed it. Likely the poor dear had been drunk, one too many fermented crab apples. Maybe she just flat out had poor judgement, or eyesight, her nose was stuffy. It could have been any one of those things, likely it had to be a combination of them all, else we can suspect she was flat out desperate. However it happened, it did happen, much to Fart’s own surprise and elation. It had to be the longest interaction with another animal he had had in years, by far it was a record time for being in the presence of a woman.
Today Fart is, as you have perhaps guessed, alone. He strolls the edges of the Meadow, careful not to get too close to anyone else, especially other males. The green male had been run off, beat up and verbally abused enough by now to know better than to creep too close to another stallion. Dirty looks didn’t bother him at this point, often he kept his eyes on the ground anyway, lifting them only to make sure he was not on course to run into anything. We can be sure he receives several glares as he passes, flicking his tail at the random flies that more often than not badger him. He has no plans, no tasks for the day besides continuing to be invisible and it is in this aimless wandering that he suddenly blacks out. No warning, no sign of a fight or danger, just blackness.
When he wakes, and you can be sure that he does, everything is still dark- still blackness. It’s a bit of time before his eyes adjust to the dim light, slowly making shapes out of objects and hard lines form as walls. Walls. Stalls. Of course stalls, but how he even knows what that is, is news to him. It seems our good Fart has woken in a dungeon, a basement even. A dungeon or a basement with horse stalls, one in which he comfortably fits. In this stall there is fresh, sweet-smelling hay to eat, there is grain or mash, something he has never had the pleasure of tasting. Not only is there food to fill his sickly-thin belly but there is a trough of cool, clear water for him to drink.
Deciding that he is feeling rather thirsty, he first chooses to have a long sip of the drink provided- once he stands up of course. His hairless head is pounding, aching and he isn’t sure how exactly he got here. One moment he was walking the Meadow, this he knows, the next...well, can’t say what happened next. A long blank stretched into darkness and then, bam, here. Where is here? Couldn’t say that either but now that he finds his legs, he can hear and smell others around him. Nervousness greets him first, he’s never been so close for so long, even separated by walls he isn’t sure that it is entirely safe for him to even breathe too much in their direction. His lime hued ears flutter about on his head, turning this way and that at the shuffle of hooves, the low whicker from far off- a scream, a shout.
Blasting the room with sound is a cry, a shrill noise of agony and fear. Pain. The idea registers quickly, so quick that Fart jerks at the next sound, a low whisper from someone else locked away in this room. “What was that?” it asks, full of concern, full of worry. “Dunno,” another says but Fart can not see to whom the voices belong, he can smell distinctly that there are other horses, but which ones? No idea. “I can’t get out,” another calls, frightened, followed by the thuds and scrapes of hooves on wood. Another scream fills the air, covering any more of the current conversation, and Fart too wishes he could cover something- his ears.
Decidedly, this was not the place to be. This was most certainly the place to not be, how could it be anything but?
This continues long, long into what he imagines is the night. A lone cricket chirps from somewhere in the dark hole they have been brought, and certainly this reminds him of night, of the stars and the moon- but none of those things are present now. There is only more dark when he looks up, only the hazy silhouettes of the other horses when he dares peak out from his stall. He doesn’t try this often, insisting that they can see him even in the shallow light, somehow that they can make out the missing hair, the notch in his lip. He would say they could smell him too but even here there are too many horses to determine what stench comes from where- and in their fear it wasn’t the most pleasant smelling place at times. When Fart can not manage to sleep against the sound of cries, the squeal of screams that emerge from an unknown place, he tries to eat. He tries to savor the delicious food, the hearty grain he has been given and if he must die, he is glad to have it.
Surely he will die, that is why they are here. Why else would they be locked away? Why else would they be subject to the tortured screams from other horses, undoubtedly other horses from this very same room? Maybe he has been given more than he deserves, allotted the small span of time for life and used it unwisely. Either way, he sleeps, deep and heavy with a belly unusually full for the slender, lime green roan. How long he sleeps, I can’t say, the hours are meaningless without the guidance of the sun and the moon. When he does finally wake it is because he is woken, the latch of his stall lifting and a funny looking man standing before him. A smile, a ”You’re next” and before Fart can pretest or attempt to flee he is frozen- eyes and nostrils wide with fear and uncertainty.
While he was lucky really, to be green, it was the only speck of mercy Fart had received from birth. The little hybrid babe had been born with no mane whatsoever. Not a bit of fluff or a stray hair to cover his bare neck, which come to find out, looks extremely odd when everyone around you has flowing, luscious locks. Now Fart had a tail of course, just the tail, and a nice one too if he might say so. Of course, you’re bound to be partial to the only shock of lime green hair you have, no matter where it might have sprouted on your body. In addition to the unfortunate no-mane incident, Fart has what some refer to as ‘hare-lip’, a rather off-putting physical mouth deformity.
It could be worse really, luckily his palette was mostly fused together on the inside, the smallest of gaps that made it difficult to eat as well as made one prone to choking if not careful. His lip though, no such luck, it was obviously parted just off-center. As though someone had taken a sharp knife to the soft flesh and sliced it right up to his nostril.
Needless to say the boy Fart grew into the man Fart with not so much as a friend to call his own. Life was lonely, quite sad too, surely if anyone had given him a bit of a chance they could see he would be a good a friend. Maybe they didn’t like his lip, or his hairless head and neck. Maybe it was because Fart had always been a bit thin due to his condition, more often than not he could use a bit of weight, especially in the winter months. Poor nutrition mean that his coat wasn’t as grand and shiny as some, that it was not as pristine as it could be if he could properly eat without fear of death. Then again it could be that, well, he was a bit smelly. No one knows why really, he had always been that way. As if something inside him had gone a bit sour, been left out too long or forgotten.
Recently, probably by accident on all accounts, Fart had somehow managed to get a mare pregnant with child. His child. He himself isn’t really sure how he managed it. Likely the poor dear had been drunk, one too many fermented crab apples. Maybe she just flat out had poor judgement, or eyesight, her nose was stuffy. It could have been any one of those things, likely it had to be a combination of them all, else we can suspect she was flat out desperate. However it happened, it did happen, much to Fart’s own surprise and elation. It had to be the longest interaction with another animal he had had in years, by far it was a record time for being in the presence of a woman.
Today Fart is, as you have perhaps guessed, alone. He strolls the edges of the Meadow, careful not to get too close to anyone else, especially other males. The green male had been run off, beat up and verbally abused enough by now to know better than to creep too close to another stallion. Dirty looks didn’t bother him at this point, often he kept his eyes on the ground anyway, lifting them only to make sure he was not on course to run into anything. We can be sure he receives several glares as he passes, flicking his tail at the random flies that more often than not badger him. He has no plans, no tasks for the day besides continuing to be invisible and it is in this aimless wandering that he suddenly blacks out. No warning, no sign of a fight or danger, just blackness.
When he wakes, and you can be sure that he does, everything is still dark- still blackness. It’s a bit of time before his eyes adjust to the dim light, slowly making shapes out of objects and hard lines form as walls. Walls. Stalls. Of course stalls, but how he even knows what that is, is news to him. It seems our good Fart has woken in a dungeon, a basement even. A dungeon or a basement with horse stalls, one in which he comfortably fits. In this stall there is fresh, sweet-smelling hay to eat, there is grain or mash, something he has never had the pleasure of tasting. Not only is there food to fill his sickly-thin belly but there is a trough of cool, clear water for him to drink.
Deciding that he is feeling rather thirsty, he first chooses to have a long sip of the drink provided- once he stands up of course. His hairless head is pounding, aching and he isn’t sure how exactly he got here. One moment he was walking the Meadow, this he knows, the next...well, can’t say what happened next. A long blank stretched into darkness and then, bam, here. Where is here? Couldn’t say that either but now that he finds his legs, he can hear and smell others around him. Nervousness greets him first, he’s never been so close for so long, even separated by walls he isn’t sure that it is entirely safe for him to even breathe too much in their direction. His lime hued ears flutter about on his head, turning this way and that at the shuffle of hooves, the low whicker from far off- a scream, a shout.
Blasting the room with sound is a cry, a shrill noise of agony and fear. Pain. The idea registers quickly, so quick that Fart jerks at the next sound, a low whisper from someone else locked away in this room. “What was that?” it asks, full of concern, full of worry. “Dunno,” another says but Fart can not see to whom the voices belong, he can smell distinctly that there are other horses, but which ones? No idea. “I can’t get out,” another calls, frightened, followed by the thuds and scrapes of hooves on wood. Another scream fills the air, covering any more of the current conversation, and Fart too wishes he could cover something- his ears.
Decidedly, this was not the place to be. This was most certainly the place to not be, how could it be anything but?
This continues long, long into what he imagines is the night. A lone cricket chirps from somewhere in the dark hole they have been brought, and certainly this reminds him of night, of the stars and the moon- but none of those things are present now. There is only more dark when he looks up, only the hazy silhouettes of the other horses when he dares peak out from his stall. He doesn’t try this often, insisting that they can see him even in the shallow light, somehow that they can make out the missing hair, the notch in his lip. He would say they could smell him too but even here there are too many horses to determine what stench comes from where- and in their fear it wasn’t the most pleasant smelling place at times. When Fart can not manage to sleep against the sound of cries, the squeal of screams that emerge from an unknown place, he tries to eat. He tries to savor the delicious food, the hearty grain he has been given and if he must die, he is glad to have it.
Surely he will die, that is why they are here. Why else would they be locked away? Why else would they be subject to the tortured screams from other horses, undoubtedly other horses from this very same room? Maybe he has been given more than he deserves, allotted the small span of time for life and used it unwisely. Either way, he sleeps, deep and heavy with a belly unusually full for the slender, lime green roan. How long he sleeps, I can’t say, the hours are meaningless without the guidance of the sun and the moon. When he does finally wake it is because he is woken, the latch of his stall lifting and a funny looking man standing before him. A smile, a ”You’re next” and before Fart can pretest or attempt to flee he is frozen- eyes and nostrils wide with fear and uncertainty.
silent but deadly
