08-06-2020, 04:33 PM
The breeze lifts the scent of the mare to Blasphemare’s nostrils before she is aware of her presence. The old, black mare lifts her head and sweeps it in the other’s direction, watching her approach. She knows that the end destination is here, where the old mare stood waiting. She knows that there is something different about this one as well. As she speaks, Blasphemare smiles the kind of smile that you can barely see, the kind of smile that you have to look for deep in those blood red eyes.
The winds whisper in her ears, telling her things that few could hear; little bits of history, little bits of information, little things that no one would ever know she knew if she didn’t volunteer the information.
She knew the little one was watching, long before she spoke. She knew there was a voice in her head, though she couldn’t tell you what the voice had said or who the voice belonged to. She could guess, however, as she turned to face the little one.
She was old. That was true. She had been around when Beqanna had still been a relatively new concept. She was so old that she cannot remember much of the early years of her own life, except that she had come here as a tiny little girl, following the scent of a mother unknown, though she couldn’t have told you that back then.
“Yes, I am old,” she says sideways to the first mare. It is redundant. She knows this is redundant. The smile that curls upon her lips even says she knows how redundant this is. “But you have a story to tell...” Then she turns her attention back on the little one. “I couldn’t even tell you how old, but I’m nearly as old as these lands themselves, but who should want to know?” Those blood red eyes stare deep into the filly’s eyes, bearing into her soul.
The winds whisper in her ears, telling her things that few could hear; little bits of history, little bits of information, little things that no one would ever know she knew if she didn’t volunteer the information.
She knew the little one was watching, long before she spoke. She knew there was a voice in her head, though she couldn’t tell you what the voice had said or who the voice belonged to. She could guess, however, as she turned to face the little one.
She was old. That was true. She had been around when Beqanna had still been a relatively new concept. She was so old that she cannot remember much of the early years of her own life, except that she had come here as a tiny little girl, following the scent of a mother unknown, though she couldn’t have told you that back then.
“Yes, I am old,” she says sideways to the first mare. It is redundant. She knows this is redundant. The smile that curls upon her lips even says she knows how redundant this is. “But you have a story to tell...” Then she turns her attention back on the little one. “I couldn’t even tell you how old, but I’m nearly as old as these lands themselves, but who should want to know?” Those blood red eyes stare deep into the filly’s eyes, bearing into her soul.