09-17-2023, 01:39 PM
The world of Beqanna - where a horse is never just a horse. She has been tiptoeing (fluttering?) through these lands long enough to know it. She doesn’t pay it all much attention, mind, but it’s hard not to notice - the horns, the tails, bird-wings and bright colours and hedge-clipping horses, horses with stripes, red eyes, all bones or no bones, from the deep or from above - and that is just what can be seen. Sometimes the biggest differences are what aren’t immediately noticed, though.
And they come together, like fire-sparks, bounce off each other and fizzle out (or burn brighter), and it’s interesting. Probably more interesting for them, not so interesting for Miko, who has watched and waited and watched some more - nothing else to do, you see, and she can’t see the sense in bumping into a stranger to exchange a cryptic and pseudo-deep conversation
- You’re thinking about something else, aren’t you, something far away and something that isn’t just standing knee-deep in grass with the wind swishing through your mane like a super hero
- Yes, but you wouldn’t understand, you are just a stupid moth
- Indeed, I am a stupid moth, but what are you?
- That’s rude, and what’s a super hero anyway?
She has had dozens of such exchanges with herself. Sometimes she thinks - is there something wrong with me, to think myself so above such things? And today she has reached the conclusion that yes - there is something wrong with her, and seeking connection and others isn’t always such a terrible thing, and maybe if she tried to make a friend, she wouldn’t be flitting around, batting her wings against her ribs to feel something.
A beautiful, stupid idiot.
The other mare looks like she is somewhere else, even with her hooves rooted firmly in the same ground as Miko. Majestic, really. Miko is curious (nosy?) and approaches slowly, with her head low and swinging, the picture of calm water - even if beneath the surface she is all flapping duck feet.
“I’m Miko,” she offers the dunskin. A pitiful offering. “What are you thinking about? Because you smell like dank caves and I don’t think you’re all here.”
And they come together, like fire-sparks, bounce off each other and fizzle out (or burn brighter), and it’s interesting. Probably more interesting for them, not so interesting for Miko, who has watched and waited and watched some more - nothing else to do, you see, and she can’t see the sense in bumping into a stranger to exchange a cryptic and pseudo-deep conversation
- You’re thinking about something else, aren’t you, something far away and something that isn’t just standing knee-deep in grass with the wind swishing through your mane like a super hero
- Yes, but you wouldn’t understand, you are just a stupid moth
- Indeed, I am a stupid moth, but what are you?
- That’s rude, and what’s a super hero anyway?
She has had dozens of such exchanges with herself. Sometimes she thinks - is there something wrong with me, to think myself so above such things? And today she has reached the conclusion that yes - there is something wrong with her, and seeking connection and others isn’t always such a terrible thing, and maybe if she tried to make a friend, she wouldn’t be flitting around, batting her wings against her ribs to feel something.
A beautiful, stupid idiot.
The other mare looks like she is somewhere else, even with her hooves rooted firmly in the same ground as Miko. Majestic, really. Miko is curious (nosy?) and approaches slowly, with her head low and swinging, the picture of calm water - even if beneath the surface she is all flapping duck feet.
“I’m Miko,” she offers the dunskin. A pitiful offering. “What are you thinking about? Because you smell like dank caves and I don’t think you’re all here.”