05-27-2015, 02:13 PM
The little buckskin mare doesn't see him at first. He is a ghost, an illusion against the passing snow, a phantom dancing nimbly in the drift. She too, for the most part, can blend into the snow - however, unlike him, she is outlined with her thick black mane and tail. He will have seen her, far before she has had the chance to lock eyes on him. Pevensie is unconcerned. She cannot fight, not in the traditional sense, as well as other horses. She has her own weapons, far more powerful weapons, at her disposal. True enough, there are far more powerful horses out there, ones that could even remove the gifts bestowed upon her, but she isn't stupid enough to piss those horses off.
Besides, nobody in the Tundra would have any reason to attack a mare on her own, clearly meaning no harm.
The pony-mare clocks him in her vision now, watching as he draws in, drinking in his appearance painted between flurries of snow. She raises her head, snorts a thin wisp of breath, standing her ground as he comes to her. As he closes his wings, placing them back at his sides, her own feather catches the wind and blows across her face. Her ostrich feather, gifted to her by the Gods of the Desert, the ancient Gods of old. She doesn't move, contented to stand side on to him, exposing the full length of her body. He will not attack her, of this she is fairly confident. On the side he faces, he can see her sunlight tattoo, a circle of yellow, rimmed in burnt orange with flames licking off from the centre. He can also see the perfect circle, cut from her left ear, a pristine bullet hole. If ever Pevensie had been beautiful, she was not any longer. She looks wild, maimed by her many years and experiences. Immortality can give everlasting life, but alas, she must carry the scars of her youth for all those long years.
She smiles at him, warm, friendly. Except there is something different about this smile. Here, away from her home, she is carefree. The smile is from the depths of her heart, radiating her happiness, her peace. He moves all about her, see's her scars, her wounds. She doesn't care, she has forgotten they are there after all these long years. They are her, she is them. This is all they'll ever get.
Her ears follow him, her eyes trace his outline, but she doesn't move, wince, waver. She is confident, calm.
"Trespassing? she repeats, a twinkle in her eyes, "I'm only trespassing if nobody wants me to be here. I can leave, if you'd like." She looks him dead in the eye, firm, unwavering in her conviction, "but then you wouldn't know. Who I am, why I'm here, what I want." She takes a step toward him, smiling her gentle smile, petite hooves tucked neatly together.
Besides, nobody in the Tundra would have any reason to attack a mare on her own, clearly meaning no harm.
The pony-mare clocks him in her vision now, watching as he draws in, drinking in his appearance painted between flurries of snow. She raises her head, snorts a thin wisp of breath, standing her ground as he comes to her. As he closes his wings, placing them back at his sides, her own feather catches the wind and blows across her face. Her ostrich feather, gifted to her by the Gods of the Desert, the ancient Gods of old. She doesn't move, contented to stand side on to him, exposing the full length of her body. He will not attack her, of this she is fairly confident. On the side he faces, he can see her sunlight tattoo, a circle of yellow, rimmed in burnt orange with flames licking off from the centre. He can also see the perfect circle, cut from her left ear, a pristine bullet hole. If ever Pevensie had been beautiful, she was not any longer. She looks wild, maimed by her many years and experiences. Immortality can give everlasting life, but alas, she must carry the scars of her youth for all those long years.
She smiles at him, warm, friendly. Except there is something different about this smile. Here, away from her home, she is carefree. The smile is from the depths of her heart, radiating her happiness, her peace. He moves all about her, see's her scars, her wounds. She doesn't care, she has forgotten they are there after all these long years. They are her, she is them. This is all they'll ever get.
Her ears follow him, her eyes trace his outline, but she doesn't move, wince, waver. She is confident, calm.
"Trespassing? she repeats, a twinkle in her eyes, "I'm only trespassing if nobody wants me to be here. I can leave, if you'd like." She looks him dead in the eye, firm, unwavering in her conviction, "but then you wouldn't know. Who I am, why I'm here, what I want." She takes a step toward him, smiling her gentle smile, petite hooves tucked neatly together.