08-24-2016, 12:42 AM
i don't love you;
but i always will.
The bay tovero has done a thing; a thing that ought to be shameful but is exactly the opposite of that - liberating. She keeps this thing a secret, hoards it to herself like precious treasure and the black press of spite against her heart has eased a little, as she feels freer now. Granted, Riva is not like nor will she ever be considered cheerful.
However, her rather peaceful idyll is shattered by songs from a throat more cheery than Riva’s will ever be. It isn’t the singing that grates on her nerves, but rather the contents of the song - things about the Dale that make her want to maim the mouth that lets such drivel fall out of it. Already she is thoroughly sickened the longer she listens to it; her ears naturally pin back against her poll in abhorrence of the Dale’s mention. Yes, Riva knows that at some point, she must make amends with one of the two kingdoms that spawned her accursed bloodline but for the time being, she thought herself safe in the Jungle deeps.
Apparently not, but at least the singing stops.
“Thank the monkeys on high!” she groans, rather indignant as she shoves off from her favorite kapok tree to go see who the hell sang so highly of the neutral mountains and lakes and made Riva wish that horses had a gag reflex. Of course the Jungle could use some cheerful souls instead of all the bloodthirsty shieldmaidens that would gladly whore themselves out to War itself if he took a stallion’s form, and few were merry and quiet like Riva (okay, spiteful and quiet but hey…). Either way, the bay tovero goes off to investigate this disturbance into her private time.
It is a little black mare, clearly sweaty like most mares not used to the heat and humidity of the Jungle. In time, they all become accustomed to it, like Riva has who hardly sweats any more unless it is just an unbearable summer’s day - then, she’s lazing in the river, eyeballing the crocodiles who boldly snap their teeth at her and she snaps back. They have an odd accord: they don’t eat her and she doesn’t make crocodile throw rugs for the Amazons’ meeting grounds. But back to the black mare resting up against a tree, that Riva is staring at rather rudely because let’s face it - Riva is hardly anything other than bold and obnoxious.
“The hills don’t need to be alive with the sound of music, seeing as you’re far from those hills anyway.”
She looks the black up and down, smells the stamp of the Dale all over her and wrinkles her nostrils in distaste.“So, what brings you here though besides singing as you wander?”
Riva