12-31-2017, 12:20 AM
Their world is a concoction of routine and chaos. They follow the rules of life (the rhythm of life and death, the chores of taking care of the body, the absolute rise and fall of the sun) but along with those patterns come things no one can predict (the sincerity of love or the bitterness of heartbreak, the sudden loss of a child, the bewilderment of a sudden onslaught of natural disaster).
The steel of the indigo’s face is one of routine birthed from chaos. A prediction that an event will happen because it has happened in the past, although it is not a piece of the song of life. Sympathy warms Wound’s tender heart for a brief moment, but the harsh expression on the mare’s face is shattered by the time she finishes her compliment. The silver bay’s lips dance with a sunny smile in response to the comment about her hair.
It’s a wonderful thing — to be complimented by a stranger. There is something raw about it, in the way that someone new might point out something they noticed upon a first meeting. Wound dips her nose to meet the indigo’s greeting, coffee eyes warm. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts, a moment of sharp doubt biting into her thoughts like a dagger. Wound has never attempted recruitment before and — although most of her reasons behind her trip to the field involve sharing her joy with others — she wants to make Warrick proud.
Her doubt is cast away by the sight of some men sauntering by the pair. Wound can feel the heavy weight of their prying, leering eyes and her ears instinctively lace into the silver ombre of her mane. She is grateful for the other mare’s company, otherwise she is not sure what they might have done. Wound holds the indigo’s gaze with a look of shared womanly concern and gratefulness as she introduces herself.
Another smile, this one less bright. “A pretty name to match your pretty coloring.” Her dark eyes glance back toward the men who have since moved off with bigger fish to catch it seemed. “My name is Wound.” A breath, which shakes at the beginning but finishes with a purpose. “I actually call Tephra my home… It’s a beautiful island and much warmer than the oncoming winter. That’s something I’m fond of, I must say.”
The steel of the indigo’s face is one of routine birthed from chaos. A prediction that an event will happen because it has happened in the past, although it is not a piece of the song of life. Sympathy warms Wound’s tender heart for a brief moment, but the harsh expression on the mare’s face is shattered by the time she finishes her compliment. The silver bay’s lips dance with a sunny smile in response to the comment about her hair.
It’s a wonderful thing — to be complimented by a stranger. There is something raw about it, in the way that someone new might point out something they noticed upon a first meeting. Wound dips her nose to meet the indigo’s greeting, coffee eyes warm. She takes a moment to gather her thoughts, a moment of sharp doubt biting into her thoughts like a dagger. Wound has never attempted recruitment before and — although most of her reasons behind her trip to the field involve sharing her joy with others — she wants to make Warrick proud.
Her doubt is cast away by the sight of some men sauntering by the pair. Wound can feel the heavy weight of their prying, leering eyes and her ears instinctively lace into the silver ombre of her mane. She is grateful for the other mare’s company, otherwise she is not sure what they might have done. Wound holds the indigo’s gaze with a look of shared womanly concern and gratefulness as she introduces herself.
Another smile, this one less bright. “A pretty name to match your pretty coloring.” Her dark eyes glance back toward the men who have since moved off with bigger fish to catch it seemed. “My name is Wound.” A breath, which shakes at the beginning but finishes with a purpose. “I actually call Tephra my home… It’s a beautiful island and much warmer than the oncoming winter. That’s something I’m fond of, I must say.”