She is not one of them. This land was wrought with history, she felt it vibrating from the rain-soaked ground as she walked. Something hung in the air, like a suffocating fog. Something drastic had happened here, a change. But she is not part of it. She can’t even remember how she got here, a huge chunk of her memory a black void. On a beach she had awoken, the edges of the waves lapping at her crumpled form. Washed ashore like a battered piece of driftwood, she had blinked the gritty sand away with bleary eyes. This place was not home. And even though she knew she would be weak on her own, without the protection of a herd, she had climbed to water-weary feet, her eyes on the treeline that sprouted away from the coast.
She had been walking through the forest for some time now, and even though she had yet to come across another horse there were signs of them everywhere. A well-worn path was winding amongst the trees, and every now and then she would see a tendril of mane or tail clinging haphazardly to the brush. Her steps were cautious, peering around from behind the curtain of black forelock to check her surroundings. It was difficult to be quiet, but she was being mindful of her steps, keeping them light against the damp ground. The air was cool, but through the tops of the trees she could see the sun trying to strain through. It had to be afternoon, if she were to guess.
Suddenly, she stops. Her muscles grew taut beneath her ragged, raven-black coat, her plain head elevating higher. With ears strained forward she listens, her breathing having nearly stopped. Up ahead was the quiet hum of voices, the indiscernible chatter of conversation bouncing off the trees. She cannot tell if they are friendly voices, and instinct tells her to not go any closer until she is sure. It would be foolish, to throw herself right into the lion’s den. The young black mare changes her direction just slightly, stepping off the worn path and ducking quietly into some thicker brush, trying to figure out a way to view these strangers without being seen.
warning to anyone who replies: I can only post once or twice a week, so if you're super active, sorry :/
She had been walking through the forest for some time now, and even though she had yet to come across another horse there were signs of them everywhere. A well-worn path was winding amongst the trees, and every now and then she would see a tendril of mane or tail clinging haphazardly to the brush. Her steps were cautious, peering around from behind the curtain of black forelock to check her surroundings. It was difficult to be quiet, but she was being mindful of her steps, keeping them light against the damp ground. The air was cool, but through the tops of the trees she could see the sun trying to strain through. It had to be afternoon, if she were to guess.
Suddenly, she stops. Her muscles grew taut beneath her ragged, raven-black coat, her plain head elevating higher. With ears strained forward she listens, her breathing having nearly stopped. Up ahead was the quiet hum of voices, the indiscernible chatter of conversation bouncing off the trees. She cannot tell if they are friendly voices, and instinct tells her to not go any closer until she is sure. It would be foolish, to throw herself right into the lion’s den. The young black mare changes her direction just slightly, stepping off the worn path and ducking quietly into some thicker brush, trying to figure out a way to view these strangers without being seen.
briseis.
you’re ripped at every edge but you’re a masterpiece
you’re ripped at every edge but you’re a masterpiece
warning to anyone who replies: I can only post once or twice a week, so if you're super active, sorry :/