01-06-2018, 04:40 PM
Wound has always had an adoration for the nighttime sky. Her favorite moments in life are those spent beneath the blanket of the stars, when the world has an otherworldly glow from the constellations. She will often pair it with one of her favorite past-times — swimming — by wading through the ocean late at night, when the waves reflect the astral illumination of the sky above.
Rather than going for a swim, the silver bay limps her way toward the field. It’s been her recent haunt in the winter months, the place where her feet guide her when she walks aimlessly. Wound has found a joy in Tephra she never thought she could achieve and her tender heart wants to share it with others. Her thoughts are comforting as she enters the field, thinking of the love she holds for her home and the love her child (swaddled among the tissue and blood of her womb) will soon experience as well.
The moon illuminates the snow eerily, but Wound finds comfort in the light. It’s relatively quiet in the field, though she had expected that. When the sun falls into the embrace of the horizon, she has noticed Beqanna’s predatory, dangerous creatures often come out to play. Although she isn’t entirely fond of their malicious behavior, Wound has spent the majority of her life in the cobwebbed corners of Beqanna; she knows how to deal with them well.
A wide-eyed stallion approaches her from her left as she moves into the inner workings of the field. He is dark as the shadows, but the whites of his eyes flash as he steps closer. Wound’s ears immediately lace back into the tangled mess of her silver-ombre locks, her desire to protect herself even stronger now that her barrel swells with the signs of pregnancy. She knows she’s an easy pick — waddling along but also limping with her malformed leg — but she won’t go down quite so quickly.
“You’d better move on before I rip your face off.” Wound’s voice is low and stern, a complete contrast from her normally sweet words. She can see the stallion think about continuing his motives for a moment so her head swings around to snap the air in front of his face. His dark body quickly retreats and Wound sighs in relief, turning her head to brush her nose against her swollen side. “Don’t worry, my sweet. We’re safe.”
Just as her gentle murmurings leave her mouth, there is the sound of one greeting followed by a second one. The silvery bay turns to spot two mares similar in several ways but also different. They both share a hue of gray (one the ivory of the snow against their legs, one the gloom of the shadows that fringe the treeline) and they both smell of foreign worlds. Wound limps closer, stopping a respectable distance away. She’s learned that newcomers are often frightened of their surroundings — as they should be — and strangers intruding on their privacy does little to comfort them.
Wound echos their greetings, though hers brings more words to follow. “Hello. My name is Wound.” Although Femur didn’t introduce herself until they had crossed the sandbank between the mainland and Tephra, Wound always finds it more soothing for the stranger if they at least know her name before following her anywhere. “I would stick together, if I were you two. The men of Beqanna often get rowdy at night.” She doesn’t want to worry them or cause them to doubt the safety of Beqanna (aside from the nightlife, their world is relatively protected), but Wound feels her words of warning are more important. She waits then, for their introductions if they desire to provide them.
Rather than going for a swim, the silver bay limps her way toward the field. It’s been her recent haunt in the winter months, the place where her feet guide her when she walks aimlessly. Wound has found a joy in Tephra she never thought she could achieve and her tender heart wants to share it with others. Her thoughts are comforting as she enters the field, thinking of the love she holds for her home and the love her child (swaddled among the tissue and blood of her womb) will soon experience as well.
The moon illuminates the snow eerily, but Wound finds comfort in the light. It’s relatively quiet in the field, though she had expected that. When the sun falls into the embrace of the horizon, she has noticed Beqanna’s predatory, dangerous creatures often come out to play. Although she isn’t entirely fond of their malicious behavior, Wound has spent the majority of her life in the cobwebbed corners of Beqanna; she knows how to deal with them well.
A wide-eyed stallion approaches her from her left as she moves into the inner workings of the field. He is dark as the shadows, but the whites of his eyes flash as he steps closer. Wound’s ears immediately lace back into the tangled mess of her silver-ombre locks, her desire to protect herself even stronger now that her barrel swells with the signs of pregnancy. She knows she’s an easy pick — waddling along but also limping with her malformed leg — but she won’t go down quite so quickly.
“You’d better move on before I rip your face off.” Wound’s voice is low and stern, a complete contrast from her normally sweet words. She can see the stallion think about continuing his motives for a moment so her head swings around to snap the air in front of his face. His dark body quickly retreats and Wound sighs in relief, turning her head to brush her nose against her swollen side. “Don’t worry, my sweet. We’re safe.”
Just as her gentle murmurings leave her mouth, there is the sound of one greeting followed by a second one. The silvery bay turns to spot two mares similar in several ways but also different. They both share a hue of gray (one the ivory of the snow against their legs, one the gloom of the shadows that fringe the treeline) and they both smell of foreign worlds. Wound limps closer, stopping a respectable distance away. She’s learned that newcomers are often frightened of their surroundings — as they should be — and strangers intruding on their privacy does little to comfort them.
Wound echos their greetings, though hers brings more words to follow. “Hello. My name is Wound.” Although Femur didn’t introduce herself until they had crossed the sandbank between the mainland and Tephra, Wound always finds it more soothing for the stranger if they at least know her name before following her anywhere. “I would stick together, if I were you two. The men of Beqanna often get rowdy at night.” She doesn’t want to worry them or cause them to doubt the safety of Beqanna (aside from the nightlife, their world is relatively protected), but Wound feels her words of warning are more important. She waits then, for their introductions if they desire to provide them.