like the tide follows the moon; any

[Epithet]

Time ticked by since their meeting. Epithet had remained barren during the passing of the last few seasons. Their meetings became more and more infrequent but the woman understands so much. She knew it was a matter of time before their faces all blend into the dirt.

Wyrm had been exponential. She had loved the green beast ferociously but his heart still clung (if only by threads) to the other with the all seeing eyes. Had they just simply faded over time? Immortality often left you alone for bouts of uncertain time, to bear witness to rise and fall of many lives. Epithet could sleep away eons and never know the difference.

The woman enters the meadow after deliberation within her own self. The kingdoms with their guided rulers, often were not of a definitive good or evil nature. The flow and flit of their moral compasses were an ebb and flow of day to day iterations. Epithet is not sure if she cares for the new way of things but the nomadic life of forest dwelling had left her quiet for far too long.

She drapes herself in a pale blue silk that drifts to a darker ombre' of indigo from her belly and down to her knees where the glimmering obsidian takes hold to give her shiny black stockings and shoes. The color pleases her greatly as she shakes the indigo into her mane and tail but leaves the ends in a dip dye of black. An indigo dorsal stripe splits the soft blue on her spine as well as powdering her lips.

"There."

She is lovely in her immortal beauty. Only old faces would truly recognize her if they should happen to find her svelte form moving through the field. Epi is content with her chosen abstraction and simply takes the time to pull at a few of the frosted grass shards. She does not chose to adorn herself with horn nor wing for it felt good to slip a nice dress on without the need for gaudy jewelry today. Hopefully, for the first in a long time, she would be sought instead of the seeker.

Epithet

[wound]

Although Wound would still consider her brothers’ protective little band to be home, Tephra is quickly flourishing into something akin to her family — maybe even something more. With each sunrise, she finds herself thanking Femur for bringing her to the volcanic island, for bringing her to a place she never knew she could enjoy so sweetly.

She wants to share her happiness with others.

That desire brings her to the field. Autumn still holds a grip over Beqanna, although it is weak. Tephra’s seasonal temperatures rarely vary past the governance of the volcano — granting them humid weather all throughout the year — but the scents of autumn and winter’s decaying battle does waft past the outer borders of their island. Wound finds she loves the refreshing scent of winter’s chill, especially in contrast to the sun-kissed, ashy heat of Tephra.

As she enters the field, Wound gives herself a hearty shake. She has no winter coat to keep the breeze off her shoulders, but the brisk walk to the field has lent her some protection from the cold. Coffee-colored eyes glance around the field for a moment, a pleasant expression on her face. Many possible recruits are already engaged in conversation with one or two kingdom-members and Wound gives a gentle smile to a few stallions who pause their conversation to inspect her with bewilderment and mild disgust.

She is exceptionally aware of her deformities, and the looks that cling to her back like desperate burrs. When Wound had first ventured past the protection of her brothers, their gazes had felt like bitter daggers slicing into her skin. She pays them no mind now, having embraced her bravery and uniqueness among the thick fronds and ashy shorelines of Tephra.

An indigo mare stands alone, seemingly fine to enjoy her own company. Wound limps over, silvery locks sliding against her slender neck as a gentle wind glides along the open expanse. A warm nicker leaves the silver bay’s mouth as she approaches, before she comes to a lilting halt. “I must admit, I’m rather envious of your color.” Her voice is sweet and amiable, the words sliding over one another like a peaceful current along smooth rocks. A gentle smile dances across her mouth, nearly on the cusp of being shy.

@[Epithet]

[Epithet]

She had been so prepared. She had forged their names in blood and brass to adorn her heart in armor. Their feverish whispers and promises were the shaft and sword of her weapon, armed against the creatures who sought to steal away her last bit of worth and hope that had managed to survive.

Epithet had come guarded and so sure it would all be the same except when the meek- "I must admit, I am rather envious of your color." -collapses her heart and the steely cage of her aura. Lavender eyes slide to see a small mare with bright eyes and a crooked smile. Epithet had been so damn certain it would be a biting stallion with crooked teeth and groping mouth...but it wasn't. It was a small, velvet chocolate stem of a mare with large eyes and a pretty smile.

Epithet, draped in her dripping indigo, smiles back as she shatters the stern porcelain mask that she had adorned. "You're silver hair is something of a greater beauty." Epithet closes her lips to a reflecting smile as she extends her nose to the other. "Looking for a home as well?" The blue mare asks with forward ears and trained focus. The dark cobalt of her long tail lifts across her hind end to drive away the flies that attempted to settle on one of her round hips.

Epithet is silently grateful for the mare's approach. Other males seemed to hover and Epithet takes a step closer to the slanted mare. There was a need to protect the weak and maimed and Epi would not hide that attribute. Pale purple eyes watch as the men make their way passed the pair of women and do not return to the other female till they are out of sight. "I'm Epithet." Her voice is cool and even as she returns to their conversation as if nothing had happened despite her urge to run those unwelcome bastards off with more than a sideways glance but for now, Epithet would remain as though a simple blue horse in the field, having a most intriguing conversation with her lovely company.

E P I T H E T

[wound]

Their world is a concoction of routine and chaos. They follow the rules of life (the rhythm of life and death, the chores of taking care of the body, the absolute rise and fall of the sun) but along with those patterns come things no one can predict (the sincerity of love or the bitterness of heartbreak, the sudden loss of a child, the bewilderment of a sudden onslaught of natural disaster).

The steel of the indigo’s face is one of routine birthed from chaos. A prediction that an event will happen because it has happened in the past, although it is not a piece of the song of life. Sympathy warms Wound’s tender heart for a brief moment, but the harsh expression on the mare’s face is shattered by the time she finishes her compliment. The silver bay’s lips dance with a sunny smile in response to the comment about her hair.

It’s a wonderful thing — to be complimented by a stranger. There is something raw about it, in the way that someone new might point out something they noticed upon a first meeting. Wound dips her nose to meet the indigo’s greeting, coffee eyes warm. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts, a moment of sharp doubt biting into her thoughts like a dagger. Wound has never attempted recruitment before and — although most of her reasons behind her trip to the field involve sharing her joy with others — she wants to make Warrick proud.

Her doubt is cast away by the sight of some men sauntering by the pair. Wound can feel the heavy weight of their prying, leering eyes and her ears instinctively lace into the silver ombre of her mane. She is grateful for the other mare’s company, otherwise she is not sure what they might have done. Wound holds the indigo’s gaze with a look of shared womanly concern and gratefulness as she introduces herself.

Another smile, this one less bright. “A pretty name to match your pretty coloring.” Her dark eyes glance back toward the men who have since moved off with bigger fish to catch it seemed. “My name is Wound.” A breath, which shakes at the beginning but finishes with a purpose. “I actually call Tephra my home… It’s a beautiful island and much warmer than the oncoming winter. That’s something I’m fond of, I must say.”

[Epithet]

The purity in the young, twisted mare is as gentle as the honeysuckle's scent. Epithet (older than the land itself) wonders if she were ever like the gentle creature before her. Was there ever a time that another looked upon her the same way and smiled? If there had been, the horse must be nothing more than soil and dust.

The woman appears youthful, glowing and eternal, her smile curling her lips with much more ease than she would care to admit to. Epithet does welcome the greeting by sweet Wound and her warm brown eyes. She was so simple, a mediocre creature with a sharp limp but gentle eyes. It made Epithet nearly regret her decision to dip herself in indigo but she does not wish to shift before the young mare. Epi had learned in her younger years that bragging made one (no matter their appearance) quite fucking ugly.

Her breath is warm against the bridge of her blue nose. Pale lavender eyes are watching carefully as Epithet feels contact for the first time that held no malicious, angry, or conniving attempts.  When Wound tells her that her name is pretty as well as her skin, Epithet damn near turns a pale shade of pink in the surprise she feels at the genuinely nice compliment. "Wound-", the indigo woman hesitates on the name as she tried to imagine the kind of mother to look down upon a frail wisp of a filly and name her simply 'Wound'. Epithet smiles gently while raising her head. "I think I'd like to see this Tephra of yours."

And that was that. Epithet tries to remember if she already knew the land but can not recall it quickly enough. Oh well. The blue mare is happy to see it all again with her new (hopefully!) friend next to her.

E P I T H E T