09-25-2018, 11:12 AM
[style].sundaypic2{background-image:url("http://barbellsandbeakers.com/beqanna/witchflygif.gif");width:500px;height:500px;z-index:1;border:black solid 1px}.sundaytext2{z-index:2;width:400px;height:370px;position:relative;top:20px;overflow-y:auto;color:#ffffff;text-align:justify;font-family:times;background-color:#000000;opacity: 0.4;filter: alpha(opacity=40);padding:10px;}.sundayname2{z-index:3;position:relative;top:30px;color:#ffffff;font-size:25pt;font-family:times;letter-spacing:10px;}.sundayquote{z-index:7;position:relative:bottom:80px;color:#000000;font-family:times;font-size:8pt;}[/style]
Suddenly, Sunday finds herself no longer alone.
She knew it would happen eventually - she'd return to Beqanna and be greeted. While others find the entire task tedious Sunday finds it refreshing. She is always open to meeting new horses, making friends, making alliances. Her mind doesn't quite work the way of the latter - it's not in her nature to be manipulative. She thinks only of friendship, of lightness, of kindness. It's her response to the cruelty of her childhood and the world of Beqanna as a whole.
"Darrow, it is a pleasure. I'm Sunday." She turns to look over the trail of flowers in her wake, a smile sliding across her face in the process. "Isn't spring lovely?" she asked, sighing with the weight of it all. She takes a quick stock of the red horse in front of her, nodding an appreciative nod in his direction. "I rather love your color, I'm sure you hear it a lot. Beqanna is a wonderful place of variety, is it not?" She says it as though the bastardization of traits across time was something to be celebrated, not frowned on like the fairies do. Sunday celebrates in the magic of Beqanna in a way only a witch could - with open arms.
She knew it would happen eventually - she'd return to Beqanna and be greeted. While others find the entire task tedious Sunday finds it refreshing. She is always open to meeting new horses, making friends, making alliances. Her mind doesn't quite work the way of the latter - it's not in her nature to be manipulative. She thinks only of friendship, of lightness, of kindness. It's her response to the cruelty of her childhood and the world of Beqanna as a whole.
"Darrow, it is a pleasure. I'm Sunday." She turns to look over the trail of flowers in her wake, a smile sliding across her face in the process. "Isn't spring lovely?" she asked, sighing with the weight of it all. She takes a quick stock of the red horse in front of her, nodding an appreciative nod in his direction. "I rather love your color, I'm sure you hear it a lot. Beqanna is a wonderful place of variety, is it not?" She says it as though the bastardization of traits across time was something to be celebrated, not frowned on like the fairies do. Sunday celebrates in the magic of Beqanna in a way only a witch could - with open arms.
SUNDAY
never put your faith in a prince. when you require a miracle, trust in a witch