08-08-2020, 12:20 PM
(This post was last modified: 08-08-2020, 12:32 PM by Blasphemare.)
blasphemare
She could tell the other mare was deliberating in her head. What she was deliberating, Blasphemare did not know, nor did she care enough to find out, though she could imagine it had something to do with using her own magic to find out what mysteries the black mare held within. The whispers of wind told her just enough to peak her curiosity, and the rest she could glean herself.
Yes, we all have stories to tell, but did Blasphemare actually have a story? If she did, she couldn’t quite remember it. She had been around for so long and gone from Beqanna for what felt like even longer that her memories had faded. This was, perhaps, the trait that had aged the most, her memory that is. Though she did remember little bits and pieces here and there. Still, she could not even remember how she had come across her traits or what she had done in the Amazons. She simply remembers that she was a big name once upon a time–a big name that was now nothing more than a whisper in the ears of strangers, a whisper that likely fell on deaf ears.
As the little one apologizes, the old mare chuckles softly. A sound that voices her thoughts, that there is no reason for her to apologize. “It’s alright, child,” she says, her voice gentle and soothing. She could tell that this one was used to a more firm and relentless presence. As the little one spoke again, Blasphemare’s ears perked slightly atop her head. “Time changes everything. Time has changed these lands, shaping the river a new course, growing new forests and killing off the old. Time has changed the old mares you see before you. I know I was once a bumbling, naive child, just like you.” She did not say this in a mean way, but rather her voice is soft and understanding, calling the little one naive as a term of endearment, rather than derision.
She stands there silent for a moment, watching the two before her, one mare aged and historical like herself, wild and free, the other young, naive, and controlled. She felt for the little one, the way she knew so little, the way she was held so tightly in the grips of the voice that commanded her here. Finally, she shifts her weight ever so slightly and says, “My name is Blasphemare, and what should I call the two of you?”
Yes, we all have stories to tell, but did Blasphemare actually have a story? If she did, she couldn’t quite remember it. She had been around for so long and gone from Beqanna for what felt like even longer that her memories had faded. This was, perhaps, the trait that had aged the most, her memory that is. Though she did remember little bits and pieces here and there. Still, she could not even remember how she had come across her traits or what she had done in the Amazons. She simply remembers that she was a big name once upon a time–a big name that was now nothing more than a whisper in the ears of strangers, a whisper that likely fell on deaf ears.
As the little one apologizes, the old mare chuckles softly. A sound that voices her thoughts, that there is no reason for her to apologize. “It’s alright, child,” she says, her voice gentle and soothing. She could tell that this one was used to a more firm and relentless presence. As the little one spoke again, Blasphemare’s ears perked slightly atop her head. “Time changes everything. Time has changed these lands, shaping the river a new course, growing new forests and killing off the old. Time has changed the old mares you see before you. I know I was once a bumbling, naive child, just like you.” She did not say this in a mean way, but rather her voice is soft and understanding, calling the little one naive as a term of endearment, rather than derision.
She stands there silent for a moment, watching the two before her, one mare aged and historical like herself, wild and free, the other young, naive, and controlled. She felt for the little one, the way she knew so little, the way she was held so tightly in the grips of the voice that commanded her here. Finally, she shifts her weight ever so slightly and says, “My name is Blasphemare, and what should I call the two of you?”
Like a fine, aged wine
@[Straia]
@[greta]