01-23-2018, 09:15 PM
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<td><center><img src=http://i34.tinypic.com/141t5ja.jpg></center><font color=#000000 face=times size=2>
Barn swallows swoop in and out of the rafters of an old wooden barn, bickering noisily over nesting territory as they settle in for the night. Perhaps the old, black stallion had caught his spots from them. Faulkor has never been much to look at - black as soot and just as filthy - his top line littered in bird-catcher spots. Rain begins to pitter-patter upon the rusty metal roof (the red paint had peeled away long ago). The setting sun illuminates the long alleyway, setting cobwebs aglow in shades of amber and red. Something stirs in a gloomy corner stall, aroused by the metallic scent of rain and the heaviness of nightfall. But there is something else.
<p> Sitting haphazardly upon a rafter is a pixie. His skin is blue-green, like an ugly bruise, and his hair is as black as pitch. The creature seems bored, chewing nonchalantly on the bones of an unfortunate swallow as one would a toothpick. Beady eyes gleam devilishly with an idea as his gaze travels down the rows of stalls (some empty, some occupied by sleepy horses). There is an occupant that no one will miss, he knows - an old, ugly stallion in a corner stall. He had lured others like him to their death before. The imp grins, revealing a row of pointed teeth, complete with a small stray feather. Suddenly realizing the presence of the remains of his meal, the imp removes the leftover fuzz with his blue-black tongue.
<p> Hopping up from his perch, the imp skips along the rafters until he reaches that gloomy corner stall. Shapeshifting into the very swallow he had devoured just moments before, the imp glides down to perch upon the prominent withers of the speckled stallion. Faulkor’s ears bury themselves in the inky blackness of his mane, and he reaches back with yellowed teeth to shoo the bird away.
<p> “Hey!” exclaims the bird in a tinny chirp, and Faulkor desists, an ear instantly unearthed from his poll in anticipation. “That’s no way to treat a stranger.” the swallow chides, and then in a poof of feathers the pixie takes his original form - humanlike and vile. The imp smiles, and Faulkor snorts in distaste, but nonetheless, the black stallion listens.
<p> “Do you know what happens when old horses leave the stables at night?” the pixie asks. Faulkor’s dark eyes gleam in the waning light of dusk, but he offers no answer. He had never been a horse of many words. “They are transformed.” continues the imp, his hands outstretched to emphasize his words.
<p> “Into what?” Faulkor replies, his voice not unlike the rasp of the wind through jagged treetops. To this the imp laughs, and the sound causes the stallion’s skin to prickle and crawl.
<p> “Into unicorns, of course.” Faulkor frowns, disappointed.
<p> “What use is a horn to me?” he asks the bruise colored pixie that sits upon his withers kicking his legs to-and-fro.
<p> “It’s not just a horn that makes a unicorn, you beast.” spits the creature, and with that the pixie leaps from the stallion’s back and zips out of the stall door. Faulkor hurries behind to see where the creature had gone, but by the time he reaches the stall door and peers into the long alleyway, there is no sign of him. With a snort, the old black stallion slinks back into his stall, seamingly resigned to live out his days surrounded by old wooden walls, musty shavings, and the patronizing looks of those who passed by his gloomy corner. A life wasted.
<p> As the last dregs of sunlight drown beneath the horizon, and the lights within the barn flicker off, Faulkor finds himself in sudden darkness and he smiles. In his younger years, the stallion had possessed all the athleticism of the grandest jumper. He looks to his stall door, now an old and decrepit beast, and he sighs. He could not hope to clear it. But, the words of the pixie echo through his mind, “It’s not just a horn that makes a unicorn…”
<p> Faulkor backs as far as he can into the back wall of his stall, the old wood grabbing at his hide as he pins his rump against it. Straightways he faces his obstacle - a stall door that reached the the point of his shoulder when he stands against it, with an opening of roughly the same size above it. With a snort, Faulkor lunges forward, dusty shavings puffing wildingly in his wake. Barely a stride and he gathers his rear beneath him to propel him over the seven foot high doorway. His knees glide effortlessly over the opening, tucked tightly to his chest. For a moment he thinks he has made it, but his hind legs catch the door at his stifle area, and the pain escapes him in a guttural groan. But the barn is even older than he is, and while the ancient wood holds tight, the screws that held the latch of the door in place break under the impact, and the door gives just enough to allow Faulkor to escape, but not without a toll of a few tail hairs on the back wall and some hide left on the lip of the stall door.
<p> For a moment the stallion looks down the shadowy alleyway, his silhouette barely discernible against the darkness. From the rafters above, an imp with hair as black as pitch smiles that fiendish smile.
<p> Faulkor steps out into the dreary rain. The scent of manure rises up to greet his nostrils as he passes a mountainous pile of horse waste. The red taillights of a car illuminate the rain droplets until they appear as sparks falling to a violent death upon the ground - a barn hand who was only just leaving. Faulkor stands frozen, hoping that the blackness of the night will keep him from being discovered. But a stray moonbeam peers from behind a cloud just at the moment the barn hand glances into her rearview mirror.
<p> “Seriously!?” she exclaims, throwing her car into park and reaching for a piece of twine that had managed to follow her from the barn to her car. She opens her door, and Faulkor realizes he has been made out.
<p> For a fleeting moment Faulkor stands as the girl approaches, grumbling under her breath, mud splashing beneath her boots. Then he lowers his head and whinnies softly, as if resigning himself to his fate once again. He trots forward to meet her, and the girl stops her advance. He has nearly reached her when she hold out a hand, but Faulkor knows better than to let her touch him with that twine (as flimsy as it is). There is only a breath between them when Faulkor bursts into a gallop, rushing past her with a huge spray of manure water astern him.
<p> Cursing, the barn hand rushed to her car to pursue the escaped horse, her face splattered in muck. Faulkor, unable to keep his pace, slows to a trot, adrenaline numbing the pain in his hind legs just enough for him to push onward. But a fence lay before him, and the barnhand’s car would soon be upon him. He weazes loudly into the night, his throat tightening evermore. The gravel road tore at his hooves, chipping away at the flares and threatening to bruise his soles with every step. Escape lay in the grass, just beyond the road, but he could not bear to jump another fence. Still, he continues forward, until his chest is nearly pressed into the barbed wire that separates him from the sure promise of freedom. But there is no time. The glow of headlights are upon him.
<p> Perhaps it is pure chance that Faulkor turns right towards the trees as opposed to left, which would have led him towards more pavement and more vehicles. But the black trees give the stallion hope, and quickly he advances down the fence line towards the forest where no car could hope to follow. Soon, the fence comes to an end, and he is swallowed whole by talls nettle weeds. Civilization disappears behind him.
<p> The shouts of the frustrated barn hand give way to the boom of thunder in the distance as the rain begins to subside. Faulkor slows to a weary trudge, stumbling here and there over the uneven, overgrown path. The moon comes to illuminate a small figure perched haphazardly upon a ribcage of a long dead horse. It is the pixie - his skin the color of a bruise, his hair as black as pitch, his beady eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Beyond the gruesome figure is a portal, blacker than the blackest ink.
<p> “Come, come.” says the imp to the old black stallion. “Be transformed.” and he motions towards the blackness. Faulkor hesitates, but the void is hungry, and the pull is strong. The old black stallion is swallowed whole by that awful hungry mouth. In darkness he falls, his skull splitting open to allow a sleek black horn to emerge, his hooves torn in two and formed into those of a goat, and his tail stretched into something more leonine with a tuft of hair on the end to match what grows from his chin. The blackness devours the white star-like spots that had previously marred his hide. When his transformation is complete, Faulkor finds himself upon the threshold of a new and mysterious world.
<p> He enters.
<center><b>F A U L K O R</b></center>
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1570 words
mythical visitor: an ugly little pixie
obstacles: stall door, barn hand, fence
unicorn appearance: black everything, sleek horn, cloven hooves, leonine tail, and a beard
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<td><center><img src=http://i34.tinypic.com/141t5ja.jpg></center><font color=#000000 face=times size=2>
Barn swallows swoop in and out of the rafters of an old wooden barn, bickering noisily over nesting territory as they settle in for the night. Perhaps the old, black stallion had caught his spots from them. Faulkor has never been much to look at - black as soot and just as filthy - his top line littered in bird-catcher spots. Rain begins to pitter-patter upon the rusty metal roof (the red paint had peeled away long ago). The setting sun illuminates the long alleyway, setting cobwebs aglow in shades of amber and red. Something stirs in a gloomy corner stall, aroused by the metallic scent of rain and the heaviness of nightfall. But there is something else.
<p> Sitting haphazardly upon a rafter is a pixie. His skin is blue-green, like an ugly bruise, and his hair is as black as pitch. The creature seems bored, chewing nonchalantly on the bones of an unfortunate swallow as one would a toothpick. Beady eyes gleam devilishly with an idea as his gaze travels down the rows of stalls (some empty, some occupied by sleepy horses). There is an occupant that no one will miss, he knows - an old, ugly stallion in a corner stall. He had lured others like him to their death before. The imp grins, revealing a row of pointed teeth, complete with a small stray feather. Suddenly realizing the presence of the remains of his meal, the imp removes the leftover fuzz with his blue-black tongue.
<p> Hopping up from his perch, the imp skips along the rafters until he reaches that gloomy corner stall. Shapeshifting into the very swallow he had devoured just moments before, the imp glides down to perch upon the prominent withers of the speckled stallion. Faulkor’s ears bury themselves in the inky blackness of his mane, and he reaches back with yellowed teeth to shoo the bird away.
<p> “Hey!” exclaims the bird in a tinny chirp, and Faulkor desists, an ear instantly unearthed from his poll in anticipation. “That’s no way to treat a stranger.” the swallow chides, and then in a poof of feathers the pixie takes his original form - humanlike and vile. The imp smiles, and Faulkor snorts in distaste, but nonetheless, the black stallion listens.
<p> “Do you know what happens when old horses leave the stables at night?” the pixie asks. Faulkor’s dark eyes gleam in the waning light of dusk, but he offers no answer. He had never been a horse of many words. “They are transformed.” continues the imp, his hands outstretched to emphasize his words.
<p> “Into what?” Faulkor replies, his voice not unlike the rasp of the wind through jagged treetops. To this the imp laughs, and the sound causes the stallion’s skin to prickle and crawl.
<p> “Into unicorns, of course.” Faulkor frowns, disappointed.
<p> “What use is a horn to me?” he asks the bruise colored pixie that sits upon his withers kicking his legs to-and-fro.
<p> “It’s not just a horn that makes a unicorn, you beast.” spits the creature, and with that the pixie leaps from the stallion’s back and zips out of the stall door. Faulkor hurries behind to see where the creature had gone, but by the time he reaches the stall door and peers into the long alleyway, there is no sign of him. With a snort, the old black stallion slinks back into his stall, seamingly resigned to live out his days surrounded by old wooden walls, musty shavings, and the patronizing looks of those who passed by his gloomy corner. A life wasted.
<p> As the last dregs of sunlight drown beneath the horizon, and the lights within the barn flicker off, Faulkor finds himself in sudden darkness and he smiles. In his younger years, the stallion had possessed all the athleticism of the grandest jumper. He looks to his stall door, now an old and decrepit beast, and he sighs. He could not hope to clear it. But, the words of the pixie echo through his mind, “It’s not just a horn that makes a unicorn…”
<p> Faulkor backs as far as he can into the back wall of his stall, the old wood grabbing at his hide as he pins his rump against it. Straightways he faces his obstacle - a stall door that reached the the point of his shoulder when he stands against it, with an opening of roughly the same size above it. With a snort, Faulkor lunges forward, dusty shavings puffing wildingly in his wake. Barely a stride and he gathers his rear beneath him to propel him over the seven foot high doorway. His knees glide effortlessly over the opening, tucked tightly to his chest. For a moment he thinks he has made it, but his hind legs catch the door at his stifle area, and the pain escapes him in a guttural groan. But the barn is even older than he is, and while the ancient wood holds tight, the screws that held the latch of the door in place break under the impact, and the door gives just enough to allow Faulkor to escape, but not without a toll of a few tail hairs on the back wall and some hide left on the lip of the stall door.
<p> For a moment the stallion looks down the shadowy alleyway, his silhouette barely discernible against the darkness. From the rafters above, an imp with hair as black as pitch smiles that fiendish smile.
<p> Faulkor steps out into the dreary rain. The scent of manure rises up to greet his nostrils as he passes a mountainous pile of horse waste. The red taillights of a car illuminate the rain droplets until they appear as sparks falling to a violent death upon the ground - a barn hand who was only just leaving. Faulkor stands frozen, hoping that the blackness of the night will keep him from being discovered. But a stray moonbeam peers from behind a cloud just at the moment the barn hand glances into her rearview mirror.
<p> “Seriously!?” she exclaims, throwing her car into park and reaching for a piece of twine that had managed to follow her from the barn to her car. She opens her door, and Faulkor realizes he has been made out.
<p> For a fleeting moment Faulkor stands as the girl approaches, grumbling under her breath, mud splashing beneath her boots. Then he lowers his head and whinnies softly, as if resigning himself to his fate once again. He trots forward to meet her, and the girl stops her advance. He has nearly reached her when she hold out a hand, but Faulkor knows better than to let her touch him with that twine (as flimsy as it is). There is only a breath between them when Faulkor bursts into a gallop, rushing past her with a huge spray of manure water astern him.
<p> Cursing, the barn hand rushed to her car to pursue the escaped horse, her face splattered in muck. Faulkor, unable to keep his pace, slows to a trot, adrenaline numbing the pain in his hind legs just enough for him to push onward. But a fence lay before him, and the barnhand’s car would soon be upon him. He weazes loudly into the night, his throat tightening evermore. The gravel road tore at his hooves, chipping away at the flares and threatening to bruise his soles with every step. Escape lay in the grass, just beyond the road, but he could not bear to jump another fence. Still, he continues forward, until his chest is nearly pressed into the barbed wire that separates him from the sure promise of freedom. But there is no time. The glow of headlights are upon him.
<p> Perhaps it is pure chance that Faulkor turns right towards the trees as opposed to left, which would have led him towards more pavement and more vehicles. But the black trees give the stallion hope, and quickly he advances down the fence line towards the forest where no car could hope to follow. Soon, the fence comes to an end, and he is swallowed whole by talls nettle weeds. Civilization disappears behind him.
<p> The shouts of the frustrated barn hand give way to the boom of thunder in the distance as the rain begins to subside. Faulkor slows to a weary trudge, stumbling here and there over the uneven, overgrown path. The moon comes to illuminate a small figure perched haphazardly upon a ribcage of a long dead horse. It is the pixie - his skin the color of a bruise, his hair as black as pitch, his beady eyes gleaming in the moonlight. Beyond the gruesome figure is a portal, blacker than the blackest ink.
<p> “Come, come.” says the imp to the old black stallion. “Be transformed.” and he motions towards the blackness. Faulkor hesitates, but the void is hungry, and the pull is strong. The old black stallion is swallowed whole by that awful hungry mouth. In darkness he falls, his skull splitting open to allow a sleek black horn to emerge, his hooves torn in two and formed into those of a goat, and his tail stretched into something more leonine with a tuft of hair on the end to match what grows from his chin. The blackness devours the white star-like spots that had previously marred his hide. When his transformation is complete, Faulkor finds himself upon the threshold of a new and mysterious world.
<p> He enters.
<center><b>F A U L K O R</b></center>
</font></td></tr></table></center>
1570 words
mythical visitor: an ugly little pixie
obstacles: stall door, barn hand, fence
unicorn appearance: black everything, sleek horn, cloven hooves, leonine tail, and a beard