It was an early morning to be wandering a land so fresh and new. Virginal dew clung to the waxy leaves of low brush that sporadically grew between the cracks of crumbling rock. The donkey mare, small and surefooted, pursues her entrance into Beqanna with a stubbornness. An orange eye slit and scoured the edge of the gurgling river as the early sun rays glinted and gleamed over the vibrating surface. Isola rolls the very same eyes as she sighs heavily at the thought of crossing that same water to get to the other side.
She is not tall. At an astounding 13.2 hands, she could very well drown somewhere in the deep dark parts of the fast moving water so she must make her way up the shore edge for something less...death-y. One small, round hoof sinks into the pebbled choked shore. The river was unlike the smooth sands of her previous home (she feels a small pang of regret for leaving but it is fleeting). Isola watches how the river begins to narrow so she continues her patter up the water’s edge.
A scent reaches the donkey mare soon after she finds a pleasant, less violent, place to cross the river except it’s behind her. A woman’s scent is blowing on the downwind to the dun woman. A furrow creases her brow slightly as she feels torn between continuing her journey and abandoning it to head up the small path. ”Well...”, the roll of her shoulders drift to a shrug as she turns to head up the small trail with long ears alert and orange eyes watching.
An image of silver soon forms as Isola finds the source of the scent. A mare, pretty and tall, stands at peace with sunlight washing her dark hair. Isola tilts her head slightly as she wonders what the leggy mare was thinking of. ”Hello there.” Its a start. Isola disrupts the birdsong and delicate morning atmosphere with the bray of her unrefined voice. Poise and grace were never qualities she possessed.
@[Star]
She is not tall. At an astounding 13.2 hands, she could very well drown somewhere in the deep dark parts of the fast moving water so she must make her way up the shore edge for something less...death-y. One small, round hoof sinks into the pebbled choked shore. The river was unlike the smooth sands of her previous home (she feels a small pang of regret for leaving but it is fleeting). Isola watches how the river begins to narrow so she continues her patter up the water’s edge.
A scent reaches the donkey mare soon after she finds a pleasant, less violent, place to cross the river except it’s behind her. A woman’s scent is blowing on the downwind to the dun woman. A furrow creases her brow slightly as she feels torn between continuing her journey and abandoning it to head up the small path. ”Well...”, the roll of her shoulders drift to a shrug as she turns to head up the small trail with long ears alert and orange eyes watching.
An image of silver soon forms as Isola finds the source of the scent. A mare, pretty and tall, stands at peace with sunlight washing her dark hair. Isola tilts her head slightly as she wonders what the leggy mare was thinking of. ”Hello there.” Its a start. Isola disrupts the birdsong and delicate morning atmosphere with the bray of her unrefined voice. Poise and grace were never qualities she possessed.
@[Star]