Harness your blame, walk through - any.

[Vineine]

***Births. Dark tunnels contracting and pushing ever towards brightness. Nature contains a multitude of them—the emergence of life, dampened and yawning, drawing deep for breath. Around her, everything is stretching. Pushing towards the cornflower blue above, reaching hungrily for sun. She moves easily, a supple swaying.  Happiness slinking across her muscles like a crack of lightening, shivering down the knots of her spine. Sunlight dapples still tough patches of snow here and there, protected by the cold of the ground and the loving, shielding arms of twisted boughs above. But around them, and through them, curl colours the likes of which the world has been deprived of for some time. She welcomes the bright young greens with a soft sigh, and bids goodbye to many things with an equally weighty exhale. ***She presses her right eye close to the bright yellow, blinking at it eagerly. A cowslip, not fully opened but striking still. Here and there the delicate whites of wood anemones gather in large swathes like floral carpet. She picks through them with careful, deliberate steps. Choice trees are beginning to bear the new and welcome weight of buds, their limbs and trunks slowly undergoing a mass warming. She presses through the cage of chilled air and reaches the ragged edge of the woods. Brome and meadowgrass sway, lifting from their previously prostrate position. The relief from the snow has them free to stand again. Melt water maps a shimmering array of inland bodies of water, varying in shapes and sizes. And the air smells of compressed and decomposing plant life.  ***Her nostrils flare greedily. ***She moves half out, already feeling the increase of warmed air beyond the trees. The mare stretches her thin neck, shaking her fine head and yawning wide. She is small, a large pony, really. Pinkish and delicate; soft brown eyes observant and wildly intelligent. A woman made wholly of nature, not entirely unremarkable, but nothing unique. She is made to shift in and out. At once pounding, vibrant flesh, and then moss and bent sapling, motionless. Ageless, like an old sentinel tree, but smooth and youthful, pregnant with adventurous yearning. A wanderlust. Or, more like a seeking. Searching for things she knows deep down do not exist. ***She desires an unnatural forever. The mechanics of it are impossible. Incompatible with nature. She spends her life coming to terms with this. Slowly but surely learning to release herself from past memories and future ideals. *magic-borne daughter of Prague and Elladora ****‘...Herself in the Heavens, her beam on the waves.’

[arzi]

a r z i 

There is something about the spring that makes him think of his family. Of those that he had and thus lost, of the little ones that used to prance through the greening grass and warming hair. Above, it was a gentle blue; below, it was a soft green. He welcomes the spring with open arms and a spring in his step. He feels younger with every spring that comes, with every bud he sees forming on the trees that dot the landscape, with every gentle flower bud that is tasting the first sweetness of spring, petals tinted with pastels under the sun. Patches of snow that has not yet left reminds him that winter still had its claws in the blooming earth, a cooler wind ruffling his knotted mane and lengthy coat. These are reminders of winter, but all he sees is spring.

He sees her, but barely. She is hidden like a cat, small in stature but nonetheless filled with strength, filled with pleasure at the newness of the earth. He stepped closer. His last conversation hadn't been successful but it had been rewarding in the fact he was finally remembering himself, what he was and what he could be again. His nostrils flare, scenting the sweetness of spring mixed with the sharp, cleanliness of the winter, but scenting her earthiness, her warmth, a small wave in a larger ocean. His interest was piqued, his ears pricking forward, listening for her movements, eyes locked onto her small form to be sure he doesn't lose her.

He lets a soft nicker escape his throat as he approaches; his posture only conveys positives, hungry for interaction and understanding. He doesn't want to alarm her, but befriend her, to learn how she seems to melt into the trees and the ground and the sky. Her scent is clearer the closer he is and he finds his nostrils flaring and dilating to take it in, in all its perfect earthiness. He steps closer and lets his head bow, gentle, and another nicker passes through his lips. Forever was impossible for someone like him, but a small infinity wasn't too much to ask for. 

[mandan]

He is familiar with unnatural forevers; His mother belongs to an unnatural forever and by rights, the blood in him should shun the likes of his mother, that ageless medicine-hat mare with her buffalo-scarred breast that both sickened and fascinated him as a wobble-legged colt at her side. But he could no more shun that mare than he could shun the blood that beat thick and primal in his veins, it would be like sloughing off a layer of himself the way that onions do, and the bay cannot ever forget his beginnings in her pale-paint belly behind the red-shielded breast and the way her heartbeat was a lullaby to him in that rocking place of water and baby-dreams. So he knows what unnatural forevers feel like, even if he’s only known for a short while. The bay has ceased his ramblings beside some tree or other; his horns itch him terribly at times, and he knocks their spiraling tines against the trunk. Bark scraps off and he cannot help it - it is the tree or his head, and he is rather fond of the rawboned shape of it that could pass for handsome in a romantic and wild way. Nearby, the rose-gray of her breaks from the wood and he cannot help but look up and watch the way she wends through the grass, petite and pony-ish, so unlike his older half-sister so full of restlessness and lacking the grace that this pretty gray possessed. He thinks of joining her, or her peace compels him to, and he is on the cusp of such an idea when a paint stallion emerges from the underbrush and joins her first. Mandan almost snorts rudely until something in the stallion’s scent gives him pause -- His nostrils flare widely as he sucks in breath after breath; neither time nor wilderness could mask the underlying smell he imagines is still there - mother, an epithet honorable and hushed on his lips in recognition of the only link they share in their bloodline. Blood recognizes blood, even unshed, and brother calls to brother through the flesh in the beat of their hearts; maybe that is why he moves with a haunted look on his face towards the pair of them, his muzzle awkwardly outstretched in greeting to both of them. He pulls his muzzle back, almost tucks his chin to his chest then squares himself to stand straight but non-threatening, not spoiling for a fight amongst the more veteran stallion but simply chuffing towards him in a more naturally communicative way before offering a short but boyish “Hello,” to the lovely little mare. ooc: Hi Holland! I played Arzi's mom and dad and this is his half-brother that he most likely has no clue about haha. Thought I'd tag along on this post and have Mandan meet them both, hope you don't mind! <3

[Vineine]

***Above there is a cheery conversation — a delightful staccato of chirps and warm trilling. Her ears flick, and she glances up. A bright goldfinch and his much less vibrantly-garbed female companion exchange contact. And then she is off, whipping acrobatically through the air and away from the canopy. Vineine watches it, growing ever-smaller before piercing the barrier of her range of sight, and off into the great wide blue. She often wondered what it would be like to take flight as a girl, but she was subject to the earth. Grounded by nature, and so she can only watch. ***She tries not to long for things she cannot have. Her mother had been so adept at letting things come to her, she had set up such high standards for her offspring. Ironically, in many ways, asking them to defy the nature of their own minds. ***Had she done the same to her children? She hopes they know they do not disappoint her in any way. ***Her soft eyes drift away from the skyline, her instincts pulling her mind from distant rifts to time and space and... She watches him as he nears, this creature of primal purity. There is wilderness in him, spoken through the tangle of his mane and the clear expression of his body. She breaths in, finding the muddled scent of dirt, trees and equine musk inviting. She returns his nicker with her own in kind, reaching out her neck — seeking contact, but going only so far as to nod it a little. “Hello,” Her voice is clear and kind, but sharply inquisitive. Probing, but not demanding. It reaches out its fingers for information, for names and scents and faces. “Beautiful day, isn't it?” ***She is a walking contradiction. A fervent follower of Mother Nature, so unconventionally created. So outside the realm of her Mother's arms, that she often wonders how close to her she can really get. So she studies birds and flowers; the passing phases of the moon and the seasonal surrenders... And imagines that everything in this strange and exciting world is under the purview of the forces. No matter how bizarre. Hopefully. Otherwise she is lost. ***She is not as at rest with her unnatural womb as he is with his. Her growing place had been warm and rosy, a mortal hall — but the quickening had come from something much more other that simple copulation. ***She offers him a smile, turning her head a bit to get a good look at his features. His outreach aching in her gut but again she resists the temptation to press her nose to him. She loves touch, the communication that can be passed skin-to-skin was the most valuable. “Hello.” She returns, maybe she can feel something pulsing between them, a silvery string ties from heart to heart. Connected in some way she is not privy to, so she lets it be. “I'm Vineine,” She offers them both, and to the air around them. Sending her breath back to be reconstituted. *magic-borne daughter of Prague and Elladora ****‘...Herself in the Heavens, her beam on the waves.’

[arzi]

a r z i

He inhales as she exhales, and he can smell fresh air and wildflowers, homey scents that take him back to foalhood. He is reminded of his mother and his friends, his childhood friends, that he misses so dearly, and a pang of longing shoots through him, sharper than any pain. He wonders if they miss him as much as he misses them, and whether they are even still alive; he has been away from his family since he turned three and he soon started his own, but he still wishes to see his mother once more, to tell her he loves her. A strong stallion can still want to wish his mother goodbye, no matter how hardened the heart.

She replies with a nicker of her own, and while he can see the voice in her the noise is still a wonderful welcome. His muzzle extends in greeting and he whuffles at her, exchanging breath, once again scenting sunshine and wildflowers and the gentle tangs of homesickness in himself. Her voice is inquisitive but not unkind - it is the sound of a mare who is strongly rooted in herself, and he appreciates that. He cannot reply in kind but he simply bobs his head, forelock falling over his eyes, a gentle playfulness that enhances his expression. It is in fact a beautiful day, filled with the breezy warmth of summer, birds chirping and cicadas buzzing in the trees. It is a time of  friendship and exploration, of budding love and gentle exchanges. 

He hears hooves and turns his head to see this new arrival, and is prepared to fight him off if he comes to battle over the gentle mare, but is struck by his scent. His nostrils flare and he offers a soft neigh of surprise; this young stallion carries the soft, grassy scent of his mother, and memories flood back to him of her gentle voice and motherly caresses, of springs and summers and winters and falls by her side, learning from her and growing as a stallion and as a man, learning how to treat mares with kindness and respect. All of this is wrapped up in his scent, and he offers him welcome. He is filled with the awkwardness of a young stallion, green from inexperience, and he reminds him of  his own young self, back before he had to grow and become a man. 

He tosses his head, greeting him again, before turning his nose back to the mare. They both remind him of home, and he doesn't want to leave, craving the reminders of where he used to be before he forgets them again. He feels badly for not thinking of his home more often, but he figures now is as good a time as ever. His ears flicker as she speaks her name, and it fits her well. One who smells of the earth deserves an earthly name, and he smiles at her. Perhaps these two could be his friends, and perhaps they could become part of his herd?

OOC: Hi there! I think that it's so cool that he still has some family about - they could have a cool dynamic, especially around Vineine. I can't wait to see where this goes!

[mandan]

He cannot help the way his eyes wander to her; she is so very different in comparison to his newly found heartmate, but pale rosy dress of her all bound up in twig and flower is something to behold. She is wild in ways that they are not; demure in her summery wildness, a bloom that blossoms in a hard place, tenacious and pretty. The young stallion cannot help the way his heart quickens at every turn of her head, the way her far-off eyes drift but never truly settle amongst them - she had the kind of eyes that dreamers had, so his mother would say. Eyes that belonged to the very wise or the very foolish, and he thinks she is wiser for the eons and starshine steeped in her gaze.

His addax horns sit heavy but familiar on his brow; they are well met in those gentle moments of airy breeze and good tidings. She smiles, and all he can do is smile back, boyish and bright. “Vineine,” he repeats, the name as lovely and secretive as she is, and yes - he thinks she has secrets, knowledge of what seed grows best in the earth, what the sparrow says to the morning in greeting, things that the rest of them will never know or guess at. Mandan likes that she is soft and earthy, so unlike the hard practicality of his mother or the bickering indifference of his half-sister. His interactions with mares have been sorely lacking but she is a welcome change of pace from rough dusty skins and nips.

The bay hears the sharp neigh of surprise from the painted stallion; he remembers their mother mentioning an earlier colt, from her first moments in these lands. He can smell the old stale mark of her on him, and thinks of how he hasn't seen her in days. Mandan knows that this older half-brother got his red coloring from their shared dam, can see more of her outward appearance in him than anything else. He huffs, content in their company, untried as a stallion but not entirely without experience in things and he can sense the other stallion’s interest in the rose-gray mare. “I'm Mandan,” he says to them.

ooc: sorry my reply sucks.

[Vineine]

***Cupped in this soft, warm chamber — petals and simple leaves; sunlight and the earthy waft of autumn — she feels deeply at ease. Unraveling from those things that hold her uneasy, all the things that weight her muscles but never the small turn of her lips. (Almost never.) She has had more reason to smile than to sulk, she has been lucky in that way. More births than losses; more moments like this than of disquiet. Lucky. She had been born in the understory of a great, wide green — where the constant hum and hiss of bugs and birds is a white noise, everything beside and below is as good as silence. A chaotic place in a serene moment, and since then has walked the careful footsteps of her own dam. Thoughtful and wild, all the way back to the beginning. ***In nature, there are many births; in nature, there are many circles. ***The paint does not speak, she realizes. But his body is not muted. She can see the nuances there, though not as in tune to this expression as he, it is not lost on her. She does not press on his silence. She doesn't need to. It is of little import. Her ears perk forward gaily, and she reaches her neck out, blowing gently through her nostrils. She extends further with a half step, touching the lean muscle of his shoulder. It is a gesture of understanding, a purity of language that she had experienced with Mandan, but could supplemented with words in a way that Arzi perhaps never could. No mind. ***She watches the very subtle posturing with interest. It is not new. This does not regress. They speak, and they congregate in kingdoms. But they still pin their ears and lift their heads high and lick when necessary. It is not nearly so dramatic as all that here. They are content with each other, and it is all she needs — one acquiescing to the other for age, and inexperience, and to keep the peace. “Mandan.” She tests it, with a soft and curious tongue. Expressing from it it's meaning, and putting it away. She will never forget it. ***“You both seem to know the wild,” She shifts her weight, looking back and forth. A strange question, but it seems to make sense to her in the heady state of relax. “Where are you from? It does not seem kingdom to me.” She could be wrong. To her it seems obvious — the feral stallion is pine and burrs in his mane. Mandan could be of a different make. He was certainly of a different nurture, unless the paint could not speak owing to some quirk in his physiology. The rosy mare tilts her head, for a brief moment catching on the odd horns on Mandan's head. Prying her mind for images to match them, but their are exotic. A magnificent curiosity. *magic-borne daughter of Prague and Elladora ****‘...Herself in the Heavens, her beam on the waves.’