The tread of her hooves feels louder here, each placement a solid clack against the dry and brittle earth. She glances over one blonde shoulder to see that the trail of her passing is faint here, and that the dry wind that blows across the drier earth will soon erase those half-moon prints in the Pangean dust.
It has been quite some time since she was this uncomfortable, and she curses the blazing sun and the hand of Fate that guides her here.
Because it must be Fate, of course, the fickle mistress that has held Lepis in thrall her entire life. Fate that she be born a queen, Fate that she be nothing now. Fate drafted her plans, revised what she planned on those late evenings with her husband. Fate that she turned to after the death of her son. It is easy to blame a higher power, and Lepis has always enjoyed easy.
This particular journey has not been easy, and sweat streaks the dun mare’s tricolored hide. Her wings are held out from her sides, the golden feathers spread wide to keep from growing damp with sweat from her tobiano hide. The navy-to-white hair of her long mane is clumped and tangled, revealing the myriad of scars across her withers and crest. The scars are growing older now, not the raw red things they had once been, but there is no mistaking the story of damage they told. She prefers to keep them covered by a full and well-groomed mane, but there is no helping that here in this forsaken place. Her scars are always the first to catch the eye; most do not look past them. There’s not much to see, of course, even if they do. Lepis is hardly average when it comes to traditional beauty. In times like these though, when her emotions run high, she is filled with an internal fire, one that illuminates her from the inside with a blazing light. She demands to been seen when she is like this, radiating her current passions through the air around her.
Today it is irritation, frustration, and an emotion that somehow completely encompasses the deep relaxation that comes after a long soak in a Loessian hot spring. That is the last time she had been nearly this hot, and she is imagining that she is there instead of here beneath this white sun and between these sandstone walls.
Why would anyone in their right mind would want to live in this wasteland, the mare wonders? Her husband had spoken highly of the leader of Pangea, but Lepis has begun to doubt the fabled Litotes on this journey to his realm. How thriving can a community in a desert truly be? What is out here to sustain the prolonged interest of rational horses? She has business to attend to, but she already knows the first question she will ask of the feline ruler. Why had he left Loess for this wasteland?
@[litotes]
It has been quite some time since she was this uncomfortable, and she curses the blazing sun and the hand of Fate that guides her here.
Because it must be Fate, of course, the fickle mistress that has held Lepis in thrall her entire life. Fate that she be born a queen, Fate that she be nothing now. Fate drafted her plans, revised what she planned on those late evenings with her husband. Fate that she turned to after the death of her son. It is easy to blame a higher power, and Lepis has always enjoyed easy.
This particular journey has not been easy, and sweat streaks the dun mare’s tricolored hide. Her wings are held out from her sides, the golden feathers spread wide to keep from growing damp with sweat from her tobiano hide. The navy-to-white hair of her long mane is clumped and tangled, revealing the myriad of scars across her withers and crest. The scars are growing older now, not the raw red things they had once been, but there is no mistaking the story of damage they told. She prefers to keep them covered by a full and well-groomed mane, but there is no helping that here in this forsaken place. Her scars are always the first to catch the eye; most do not look past them. There’s not much to see, of course, even if they do. Lepis is hardly average when it comes to traditional beauty. In times like these though, when her emotions run high, she is filled with an internal fire, one that illuminates her from the inside with a blazing light. She demands to been seen when she is like this, radiating her current passions through the air around her.
Today it is irritation, frustration, and an emotion that somehow completely encompasses the deep relaxation that comes after a long soak in a Loessian hot spring. That is the last time she had been nearly this hot, and she is imagining that she is there instead of here beneath this white sun and between these sandstone walls.
Why would anyone in their right mind would want to live in this wasteland, the mare wonders? Her husband had spoken highly of the leader of Pangea, but Lepis has begun to doubt the fabled Litotes on this journey to his realm. How thriving can a community in a desert truly be? What is out here to sustain the prolonged interest of rational horses? She has business to attend to, but she already knows the first question she will ask of the feline ruler. Why had he left Loess for this wasteland?
@[litotes]
