10-05-2018, 04:15 PM
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<center><div class="ilmacontain"><div class="ilma"><i>Ilma</i></div><div class="ilmagrad"></div><div class="ilmaquote">And there's a lesson waiting to be learned<br>the firestarters always get the burns<br>and the good guys never get the girl</div><div style="padding-left:10px;padding-right:10px;"><p class="ilmamess">
She may look like a ghost between the redwood trees and the sea mist luring into the night – yet, the pumpkin-headed figure that has asked her and the others to disguise themselves, does not show. Somehow, she had not expected him to; it might just be too easy that way. Besides, there’s literally nothing that says she is facing any fears right now like he’d promised. No, something seems to be wrong.
It’s not much later than that, that she hears him curse wildly, and there seems to be something landing not far away. Shocked, she stares at it; but it doesn’t move, Jack tells them about these things being his henchmen, and well, honestly, it is forgotten for a moment, because it’s not the only thing changing around her.
Pumpkins seem to grow all over the redwood forest. She has to move sideways so as not to get squished between two of them, growing way beyond normal size – but she’s never seen a pumpkin before, to be honest. How would she know this is not supposed to be? Simple: this Jack figure had not meant this evening to go quite this way.
She sighs a little, and moves forward, looking at her lure she’d brought. She’s gathered fruits from her homeland, sweet things, and cute as it is, a smaller pumpkin (big for a normal-sized one) has grown right beneath it as a sort of table. She kicks the pumpkin; it smashes, and fruits and pumpkin mash make up a pretty, and tasty, display in the little field she’s in. The moonlight from above shines on her white figure as she watches it, content a moment, then cocking her head at it and moving around, shoving bits and pieces together in an image. A pumpkin-headed horse, for good measure.
Perhaps this will lure him out. It’s made of pumpkin, candy wrappers that she found landing next to the pumpkins, and the fruits. But when she overthinks her lure, then, there’s the changing. Her legs seem to shorten a little, bending in places; and her head takes a weird round form. Staring down at her hooves, they have changed into something horrendous. No longer are they hooves, but parts of her leg have given up on hair, and the hooves seem to split into weird sausage-shaped things, things that she can move about but has no use for while standing on four legs – little does she know, the five-fingered appendages are hands, and she’s leaning into her palms. She has just about wriggled and moved the new fingers, when her hind falls to the ground – there, sits a human being, hair almost as orange as a pumpkin’s skin, though perhaps slightly redder; skin and dress, white as a ghost; her eyes dipped in some kind of stain, her disguise is still not lost. Perplexed; she sits there a moment. Then, she backs up on hands and feet, and her shocked amber eyes take in the scene before her.
Wondering if he’ll still come, wondering if she’ll ever be changed back.
At least, now she is a horse with hands. And as she absent-mindedly runs her fingers through her dark-red-orange hair, and looks at the things, she supposes that she can find them useful.
For trapping and such, you know?
</p></div><div class="ilmaquoterepeat">and shooting stars cannot fix the world</div></div></center>
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<center><div class="ilmacontain"><div class="ilma"><i>Ilma</i></div><div class="ilmagrad"></div><div class="ilmaquote">And there's a lesson waiting to be learned<br>the firestarters always get the burns<br>and the good guys never get the girl</div><div style="padding-left:10px;padding-right:10px;"><p class="ilmamess">
She may look like a ghost between the redwood trees and the sea mist luring into the night – yet, the pumpkin-headed figure that has asked her and the others to disguise themselves, does not show. Somehow, she had not expected him to; it might just be too easy that way. Besides, there’s literally nothing that says she is facing any fears right now like he’d promised. No, something seems to be wrong.
It’s not much later than that, that she hears him curse wildly, and there seems to be something landing not far away. Shocked, she stares at it; but it doesn’t move, Jack tells them about these things being his henchmen, and well, honestly, it is forgotten for a moment, because it’s not the only thing changing around her.
Pumpkins seem to grow all over the redwood forest. She has to move sideways so as not to get squished between two of them, growing way beyond normal size – but she’s never seen a pumpkin before, to be honest. How would she know this is not supposed to be? Simple: this Jack figure had not meant this evening to go quite this way.
She sighs a little, and moves forward, looking at her lure she’d brought. She’s gathered fruits from her homeland, sweet things, and cute as it is, a smaller pumpkin (big for a normal-sized one) has grown right beneath it as a sort of table. She kicks the pumpkin; it smashes, and fruits and pumpkin mash make up a pretty, and tasty, display in the little field she’s in. The moonlight from above shines on her white figure as she watches it, content a moment, then cocking her head at it and moving around, shoving bits and pieces together in an image. A pumpkin-headed horse, for good measure.
Perhaps this will lure him out. It’s made of pumpkin, candy wrappers that she found landing next to the pumpkins, and the fruits. But when she overthinks her lure, then, there’s the changing. Her legs seem to shorten a little, bending in places; and her head takes a weird round form. Staring down at her hooves, they have changed into something horrendous. No longer are they hooves, but parts of her leg have given up on hair, and the hooves seem to split into weird sausage-shaped things, things that she can move about but has no use for while standing on four legs – little does she know, the five-fingered appendages are hands, and she’s leaning into her palms. She has just about wriggled and moved the new fingers, when her hind falls to the ground – there, sits a human being, hair almost as orange as a pumpkin’s skin, though perhaps slightly redder; skin and dress, white as a ghost; her eyes dipped in some kind of stain, her disguise is still not lost. Perplexed; she sits there a moment. Then, she backs up on hands and feet, and her shocked amber eyes take in the scene before her.
Wondering if he’ll still come, wondering if she’ll ever be changed back.
At least, now she is a horse with hands. And as she absent-mindedly runs her fingers through her dark-red-orange hair, and looks at the things, she supposes that she can find them useful.
For trapping and such, you know?
</p></div><div class="ilmaquoterepeat">and shooting stars cannot fix the world</div></div></center>
Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
Robert Jordan, Wheel of Time