[open] look what we started

[Drear]

Winter bit at her heels, and she was more that happy to oblige it’s demands to keep moving.  There was something about the forest today that had set her on edge as soon as she had crossed the river from the Meadow, skirting around the base of Hyaline’s peaks.  The feeling had followed her from the River’s banks, it’s burden intensifying  the longer she followed the path of the sun to it’s descent. 

There was no goal in mind - except to get away from the sudden heaviness that had suddenly began to creep into Pangea to the north, and a simple fear of whatever it was creeping southward into the Meadow.  But that sense of foreboding somehow felt minor in comparison to what she was feeling now, and regret dropped into the pit of her stomach like a boulder crashing into the sea.

The bitter wind tousled the roses that nestled and grew along her crest, it’s gust strong enough to scatter a few ruby petals from their home.  They spiraled in a near mesmerizing way, and Drear stopped to marvel at the intricate design of deep red speckled over glittering white.  It was impossible, she thought, that the roses could look as pretty on her as they did on freshly fallen snow.

The maiden smiled as another gentler breeze carried them closer to the base of an ancient tree, and shivering against the intrusion cold blustered along her side, she followed with a few steps nearer, happy to watch the petals dance merrily.

They settled there at the base of the tree, seemingly exhausted from their spontaneous winter reverie and motionless in the absence of the Forest’s wind.  How strange it was then, when she noticed their numbers seemed to grow.  There hadn’t been that many petals there a moment ago, had there?  Drear’s smile faltered, and taking a few more steps towards the looming pine she dared to do what her inquisitive nature had begged of her.

Something sharp overcame her sense of smell, overtaking the crisp, pleasantness that typically accompanied winter.  The girl’s nose wrinkled against the assault, just as her eyes widened at the realization that the red fallen over the snow did not only come from her flowers.

Everything within screamed for her to move, but the shock of a freshly slayed rabbit falling from the tree to lay at her feet - followed by a growl so impossibly ominous - paralyzed her.  Drear already knew what was waiting for her when her eyes rose to the shadowed limbs of the tree, foolishly hoping that maybe seeing it would relieve some of the terror that slowly threatened to devour her.  It was then that she realized how frail and how weak she truly was, when the eyes of the mountain lion turned down to her.

[Blasphemare]

blasphemare

Blasphemare stood in the meadow, watching the smoke billowing from the north, not much interested or concerned with what was going on up there–not that she even could be, with her emotions gone. A curse brushes her lips as she thinks about what she lost in that quest. Would those emotions ever return? And how would that affect… She twists her neck around to nudge gently at her growing figure.

A soft breeze plays with the tendrils of her mane and tale, tickling her neck and flanks. The old mare swishes her tale to rid herself of the feeling, not that it was annoying or anything. She paws at the ground, brushing aside the light layer of snow that lay there, then lowers her head, huffing into the frozen grasses that tasted bitter this time of year. She takes a small mouthful, feeling the ice melt against her warm tongue almost instantly, but she could not abide by the taste, so that is the only mouthful she would take, for now.

Restless, she lifts her head once more and shifts her weight. She begins walking toward the trees, her blood colored eyes drifting over the shadows that she feels intimately closer to than ever before. As she moves into the trees, she allows the darkness to envelop her black figure as old friends. They seem to shimmer and shift around her, embracing her and the magic that coursed through her veins. Blasphemare all but disappears into the shadows. Something about disappearing felt right just now.

Thankfully, this was easy magic. Since the quest, she had found her strength to be much less than normal. Even this little bit of magic was a stretch of her current abilities.

She continues moving, her hooves silent against the frozen ground, until her eyes alight on a young filly, casually enjoying the wind playing with a few random rose petals on the ground. But it was not all rose petals. There was something else red there, and the coppery smell taints the air in her nostrils, just as the other realizes the smell is there as well.

Blasphemare’s blood-colored eyes quickly follow the trunk of the tree into its bows, and there she saw the mountain lion, large and angry and apparently hungry for more than just the rabbit it dropped at the hooves of the young filly. Normally, she might have felt a thrill of fear for the white creature, but those emotions are still gone. Instead, she feels her magic welling up within her, preparing itself before her consciousness had the chance to guide it, almost instinctively, stronger than before.

She moves forward quickly, the shadows about her shifting and moving aside so that she appears to the other, not that she would notice with her eyes trained on the mountain lion. Blasphemare’s movements are silent, guided by her magic, so that the lion does not realize she is there until the last moment, when the black mare came sliding to a halt next to the white filly. She draws from the shadows, her magic forming a barrier between the carnivore and its prey, while another tendril quickly spikes out and wraps itself about the lion, ripping it from the tree.

The beast falls from the branches with a loud crash only a few feet away. It leaps back to its feet with feline grace, spinning around with a loud shriek. It leaps at the two of them, claws outstretched and ready for a fight. But Blasphemare is ready. Her magic reaches out once more for the beast, wrapping about its figure and throwing it back to the ground with a loud crack! This time, when the lion gets up, it does so more slowly, more cautiously, confusion obviously on its face. It makes one more lunge, to which the black mare responds once more by throwing it back to the ground. On its third time rising, the beast decides it has had enough. It shrieks at the once more, then turns and limps off into the understory.

The old mare side-steps away from the filly and turns toward her. It is kind of a moot point, but still, she asks, “Are you okay?” Her eyes tell her that though the other is spooked, she is more or less fine. Blasphemare, on the other hand, had begun to tremble. That had been a lot for her magic, and a lot for her tired, heavily pregnant self.

like a fine, aged wine

@[Drear]