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  • Beqanna

    COTY

    Assailant -- Year 226

    QOTY

    "But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura


    Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky.
    #3

    HOCKETY, POCKETY, WOCKETY, WACK


    Oh Me! Oh Life! of the questions of these recurring.

    Life had gotten a bit out of sorts for Weir lately. He felt all mixed up and turned upside down, he hadn’t coped well to the loss of his child, hadn’t conducted himself in a very gentlemanly manner. It was too late now, to take back his out bursts. That, he could not fix. What he could do was suck it up, move on, take comfort in his visit to the grave site with Iset. He could move on, live his life, and keep a little light on for the one he lost.

    He is at the field again, trudging through the snow to find new faces. They could use them back home, could use all the new faces they could get. It’s pretty bare today he notes, scanning over the blanket of white with concentration in his eyes. They pass over many empty drifts, nothing there to see but more snowfall, until finally something. Yes, finally! He almost misses the man, his creamy coat blending into the backdrop, almost.

    The roan trots on up, a rather happy look plastered on his face. He was feeling rather good now having chanced upon this stranger, what a nice change. "Hello there fellows.” He greets, all the air of interest, of curiosity. "What a lovely coat for winter, might have walked right on by ol’ boy. Good thing for you to have that lovely cream base, not true white, but very close.” He quips, or he attempts to, falling into his best awkwardness. He just could not have conversation without some learning it seemed. A bit of information here, a tad of observation there. "I am Weir, from the Dale, it is quite the pleasure. What may I call you?” He blinks quizzically at the new comer, the very sturdy perlino before them. 

    He looks to them all, now a small gathering of men, one of which is a complete contrast to the cold. He has seen this one before, yes, around abouts the same place too. What excellent luck, what a fine day indeed. "Ah, Warshyshippy! How does the Chamber fair ol' sport" Ol' sport. That hideous pet name. As if they were friends, as if it was nothing odd or out of the ordinary. 

    WEIR
    The Dale's Eccentric Magic Manipulator
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    Messages In This Thread
    Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky. - by Pruor - 09-24-2015, 05:04 PM
    RE: Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky. - by Weir - 09-24-2015, 05:26 PM
    RE: Trees are poems the earth writes upon the sky. - by Pruor - 09-24-2015, 06:01 PM



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