06-09-2017, 01:35 PM
the night is my companion, and solitude my guide.
She stands where the craggy rocks meet the river, frothing waves gently coaxing and pulling against the silver-blue of her long legs. The water was clear; so clear, in fact, that she could see the grey pebbles that line the bottom of the river. The stones’ are smooth with the steady flow of the tremulous waters, their different shades and shapes creating a pale mosaic of ashen gray, silver, and near white beneath the surface. A lazy mist hangs loosely over this particular calm twist in the large, winding river. It clings to the trees and rocks, as well as to the greyness of her body, dipping into the soft and curved lines of her shoulders and hips. The moisture in the air causes her mane to grip tightly in its dampness of her neck, her black forelock plastering against the bridge of her nose.
The silver and white mare stands stoically as the quiet world envelops her, the darkness of the wood behind her and the slow-moving fog muffling all noise except the sound of the rushing river before her. The trees surrounding the river were bright green against the silvery mist and the early morning darkness that lingers with it. The tall trees were alive and fresh with summer’s plenty – rain and sun was bountiful, encouraging the trees to stretch high and grow, to spread their branches and leaves to cast shade below. The water is cold against her skin, icily moving past her with a purpose that was unknown to her. She remains quiet and unmoving, not wanting to disturb the beauty that was going on around her.
Augusta found the solace of the river enchanting, as it was different from the forest and the cave that she knew so well. Her mother and father remain in their quiet home, pleased with the soundless forest and all it has to offer them. Augusta has been staying there too, content with wandering the silent trees and bubbling streams. Here, though, the silent wood opens to the river and she almost prefers it: the sound of rushing, rapid water loud and lurid in her ears.
Quietly nestled in the river’s bank, in a little alcove where the water was not too rough and swift, she searches the clear water with her nose to its surface, her almond eyes watching as tiny slivers of minnows dart through the pebbles and rock, their scales shining silver when the sun’s light catches them. She maneuvers herself carefully so that she will not trip on any pebbles that roll beneath her hooves, and so that the small fish become accustomed to her presence, nibbling not only at the algae she has kicked up, but also at the tiny hairs above her hooves.
The silver and white mare stands stoically as the quiet world envelops her, the darkness of the wood behind her and the slow-moving fog muffling all noise except the sound of the rushing river before her. The trees surrounding the river were bright green against the silvery mist and the early morning darkness that lingers with it. The tall trees were alive and fresh with summer’s plenty – rain and sun was bountiful, encouraging the trees to stretch high and grow, to spread their branches and leaves to cast shade below. The water is cold against her skin, icily moving past her with a purpose that was unknown to her. She remains quiet and unmoving, not wanting to disturb the beauty that was going on around her.
Augusta found the solace of the river enchanting, as it was different from the forest and the cave that she knew so well. Her mother and father remain in their quiet home, pleased with the soundless forest and all it has to offer them. Augusta has been staying there too, content with wandering the silent trees and bubbling streams. Here, though, the silent wood opens to the river and she almost prefers it: the sound of rushing, rapid water loud and lurid in her ears.
Quietly nestled in the river’s bank, in a little alcove where the water was not too rough and swift, she searches the clear water with her nose to its surface, her almond eyes watching as tiny slivers of minnows dart through the pebbles and rock, their scales shining silver when the sun’s light catches them. She maneuvers herself carefully so that she will not trip on any pebbles that roll beneath her hooves, and so that the small fish become accustomed to her presence, nibbling not only at the algae she has kicked up, but also at the tiny hairs above her hooves.
@[Jenger]