11-10-2017, 06:47 PM
hard liquor mixed with a little bit of intellect
 | Wound is no stranger to a life spent roaming the dusty corners of Beqanna. She’d slipped into those days, those weeks, of walking until her legs were shuddering in exhaustion. Her brothers pushed her to her breaking point each day during those hard times. Any scent of danger and they would be off, nipping at her heels and bluntly encouraging her to move faster. She knew their actions were formed from love and protection, but the nights when her muscles would spasm and quake from fatigue brought no love or protection to her young mind. She startles upon hearing the voice. It came directly perpendicular to her graceful (a delicate swath of Arabian heritage doused in the gentle heat of compact muscle, impaired only by the brutal alienness of her impaired foreleg) frame, causing her to shift her footsteps in the opposite direction. Wound’s ears pin in a moment of mingled emotion - confusion, surprise, and concern - as the sharp sound of her hooves hitting the thin ice shatters the silence following the words. Her feet land on the solidified water only for a moment before she stumbles into the chilly waters. Wound nearly tumbles headfirst into the river, but she quickly shifts her weight before she has completely gone for a swim. A rough snort jolts out of her nose as she hops clumsily out of the broken ice patch. Embarrassment swaths Wound’s skin for a moment before she regains herself. Despite being exceptionally brave, she has her own moments of shame. The silver bay twists toward the man who had spoken before and spooked her so much. “Do you always sit in the shadows and try to drown those passing through?” Her voice is scathing, perhaps the most heated thing in the vicinity. Her ears twists into the thick of her mane, further voicing her passion. “God, do you have any manners?” |