go to hell for heaven's sake
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Beqanna
Assailant -- Year 226
"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
the day is gone, the world spins madly on [march babies]
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04-03-2017, 10:59 PM
go to hell for heaven's sake S inner ![]() Profile | Detailed Bio | Character Reference
Most likely always in his hellhound form
04-04-2017, 12:35 PM
He likes the warmth in Knight's smile; it makes him feel less like an outsider. The mulberry colt asks if he wants to help catch the butterfly, and Ivar nods. He's not really sure that he wants to, but it seems like the others do, and he wants to be included. He's seen butterflies from a distance before, but they seem so delicate and fragile. If catching it will hurt it, he decides, he'll change his mind. For now though, he's content to be pulled along the stream of popular opinion.
The painted colt barely notices Ana leaving - he is caught up in what the blue colt is saying. Rapture seems as reluctant as Ivar had silently been to hurt the butterfly, and Ivar is glad. The tobiano colt boss agreeably and circles around, putting himself between the butterfly and the woods in the hopes that it will flutter back towards them. Ivar is all but cross-eyed when the butterfly hovers in front of his face, but he remains utterly still. It wavers, hesitating, and then brushes his pale nose with one bright wing before if flits away again. With his field of vision expanded, he notices the roan filly that has joined their company and smiles brightly at her. He is about to warn her that the butterfly is heading her way when he's distracted by the arrival of yet another foal. This one lacks the jewel-bright colors of most of their company, but it's not his coloring that makes him stand out. Ivar doesn't like the way he interrupts their game, but it's not the interruption that gives him the bit of courage to step between the butterfly (which has just landed on a dandelion) and the bay colt. "You won't hurt it." Ivar tells him, the firmness in his voice matched by the expression in his formerly soft eyes. "It didn't do anything to you." He teeters on saying something else, on trusting the part of himself that loves the water, but he recenters, pauses, and smiles. "You can help us chase it though. You can play...but you can't hurt it." Maybe the new colt just doesn't like butterflies, Ivar thinks. "Or we could pick a new game to play, since the butterfly is gone." He adds the last as he watches the small insect being carried away in a summer breeze, soaring high over their heads into the blue sky.
04-04-2017, 08:42 PM
She hatched.
Who hatches from an egg?
She did.
There had been more than she thought necessary at her hatching, and they had stared at her with greedy hungering eyes as if they expected something more fantastical than her. That was the first time she laid eyes on disappointment so plainly etched upon someone’s face as it had been on the older colt’s sneering disdainful veneer. But then, the mare had bid her to come and shunted her forth rather unceremoniously and brooked no balking from the hatchling. Most of the eggshell had been licked clean off her by the mare and she had been shoved back towards an inviting and sagging teat that gave her delicious milk to guzzle long and deep of.
She took a long nap afterwards, at the mare’s feet. Napped and dreamt, and thought nothing more of her strange beginning - who hatches? She heard the murmurs but made little sense of them because to her, she’d been an egg a lot longer than she’d been a horse. But the mare grew crabby and sore, her own foal still sitting thick and heavy in her girth but not dropping further into place and eventually the mare shooed the little hatchling off. “Go explore,” she barked, furious at only herself and her lingering pregnant state and gave nothing more to the hatchling then a warning to be back before dark and a word that she took to be her name, Spavin.
Dispatched to places of ill repute and ill regard, she traipses through the cracks and crevices of the eyesore that is the land around her. She thinks adventure shall slay the tedium but no one wants to adventure with her, not even those creepy mean colts that stared at her like she had two heads. Paused, in a most ungracious manner of splayed legs and heaving sides and tiny meaningless snorts, she realizes that no boundaries where given her - no orders to not stray outside the Pangean wastes. Tickled by this notion, she gives a little kick and darts off on a merry path of her own making and perhaps, steered by a tinier unseen hand of fairy-fate, she finds the place that all the foals have discovered.
Luckily for her, they’ve also all gathered conveniently around in one big group.
Normally, a bevy of bright small beings like themselves might have given her pause and cause to balk at joining them but Spavin is puffed up and high on her own proud decision to go exploring further than she ought to have. It is that sense of freedom and disobedience that renders her giddy and her golden eyes bright like two shiny new coins in her painfully plain face. She is a little hesitant at first, as she nears them because they are many and distracting in their bright colors and their loud talk - something about harm, butterflies, and something else... Oh, games! Games are fun, she thinks, or they sound fun at least because she’s only had herself to entertain well, herself. Unless they count chase-the-wind and touch-your-tail as games… she gives a quick shake of her head to break herself from her train of thought, and then the little bay hatchling walks over to them, hanging back on the periphery of their circle.
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