04-25-2024, 07:31 PM
Gnarled branches knit a familiar canopy overhead as the indigo colt wanders the depths of the forest. The shadows here suit him, folding him away from prying eyes. It’s where he’s felt safest for the whole of his life; the gloom is a comfort to him. These shadows, different from the blue-tinted light of nightfall, touched upon him with a secrecy that daylight could not offer.
Sophist had been born under the moon, full and bright and mystical as it transformed his infant form into a hideous sight. Limbs of bone with tattered violet flesh clinging to them, a skeleton dressed in bruise-colored bits of skin. Perhaps that is why he’d been abandoned – his mother, having seen that he had inherited her curse, had somehow presumed him better off alone.
And alone he has remained.
Alone, he festered.
Alone, his heart grew bitter, folding upon itself and shutting away any potential for hope.
He does not romp and roam as others his age might; he does not seek out companionship. He prefers it here where the trees and quiet creeks are all that speak to him. He enjoys the solitude, having assured himself that the typical social intercourse he often observes from the treeline is simply not for him.
As any child convinced that they are entirely correct in their assumptions, he has remained isolated.
Thus he has grown rather familiar with the veritable mazes of the forest. Kindred spirits could be found in the twists of knotted trees, the silver-flicked eyes of scurrying creatures who, like him, desired secrecy. He likes to think he has become one of them, forgotten in this place.
Much as he believes he knows the paths of the forest, he is very much mistaken. He learns as much quite quickly as he wanders today. Certain that he is bound for one of the wider freshwater streams, he finds himself somewhere else entirely.
He had only just stepped forward, pale hooves bringing him readily toward the promise of water, when an overwhelming sensation of having walked through a massive spiderweb overtakes him. He sputters, coughs vaguely, and tosses his head in an attempt to dislodge the offensive feeling, only to open his bright eyes upon unknown surroundings.
The forest had betrayed him to some new and foreign reality worthy of an indignant snort and stamp of his foot.
Sophist had been born under the moon, full and bright and mystical as it transformed his infant form into a hideous sight. Limbs of bone with tattered violet flesh clinging to them, a skeleton dressed in bruise-colored bits of skin. Perhaps that is why he’d been abandoned – his mother, having seen that he had inherited her curse, had somehow presumed him better off alone.
And alone he has remained.
Alone, he festered.
Alone, his heart grew bitter, folding upon itself and shutting away any potential for hope.
He does not romp and roam as others his age might; he does not seek out companionship. He prefers it here where the trees and quiet creeks are all that speak to him. He enjoys the solitude, having assured himself that the typical social intercourse he often observes from the treeline is simply not for him.
As any child convinced that they are entirely correct in their assumptions, he has remained isolated.
Thus he has grown rather familiar with the veritable mazes of the forest. Kindred spirits could be found in the twists of knotted trees, the silver-flicked eyes of scurrying creatures who, like him, desired secrecy. He likes to think he has become one of them, forgotten in this place.
Much as he believes he knows the paths of the forest, he is very much mistaken. He learns as much quite quickly as he wanders today. Certain that he is bound for one of the wider freshwater streams, he finds himself somewhere else entirely.
He had only just stepped forward, pale hooves bringing him readily toward the promise of water, when an overwhelming sensation of having walked through a massive spiderweb overtakes him. He sputters, coughs vaguely, and tosses his head in an attempt to dislodge the offensive feeling, only to open his bright eyes upon unknown surroundings.
The forest had betrayed him to some new and foreign reality worthy of an indignant snort and stamp of his foot.
Sophist
if you take my nights will you leave me my days?