10-07-2018, 01:30 AM
(This post was last modified: 10-16-2018, 07:10 PM by Aysel.
Edit Reason: additions
)
Grass bends as hooves beat down upon it, trails worn and flattened into the ground over time and through expansive- vast networks of the field, multiple bodies sway and gather. Skies, oh those skies, of unending blue are painted by silver lined clouds and shaped by the distant mountains on the horizon. Birds fly ahead and the sound of insects is prevalent in the lush, tall grasses: fluttering chitinous wings and carapaces… the biting jaws of flies and other vermin, all things haunting the wild spring.
Dewy and murky, a scent of petrichor and ozone settles: grey at the tops of the mountains, and in their shadow- in the reaches of the field: another body slithers into play. Spattered grey and rusted, the compact and smooth body standing out, and only made more evident by whitened limbs and face: this creature, this mare and all the spectacle of her smooth gait. Poised and regal the vermillion locks of man and tial floated freely and her wild eyes cast gaze upon each lily and wildflower.
With an arched back the hips swayed and her shoulders rolled as motion did not cease, as she wove through the trails and paths: finally settling to circle a tree. Ragged and creviced bark scratched her flesh and she bathed in the sun between the leaves, her body unmoving then and stretching idly. Aysel, the mare knew her own name, purred and chuckled: her eyes linger and stare scrutinizing every leaf and flower: every imperfection. Still she waits a moment before straightening up and wrapping a leg across the other: the wiles of her form ever illuminated and those curves readily seen.
Though not allowed, she thinks, her stare smoldering and burning: locked on a branch where thorn and vine have curled and bit into the wood. ‘Such a perfect mark of nature,’ she muses in her own head. ‘It will cut into the bark and scar it, remind anyone that even the most immense of things is not without defeast or marking.’ she cannot imagine her own purr or the seductive tone she would have taken; but Aysel knows one thing and as such she hums, a lullaby- an old Amazonian tune.
Dewy and murky, a scent of petrichor and ozone settles: grey at the tops of the mountains, and in their shadow- in the reaches of the field: another body slithers into play. Spattered grey and rusted, the compact and smooth body standing out, and only made more evident by whitened limbs and face: this creature, this mare and all the spectacle of her smooth gait. Poised and regal the vermillion locks of man and tial floated freely and her wild eyes cast gaze upon each lily and wildflower.
With an arched back the hips swayed and her shoulders rolled as motion did not cease, as she wove through the trails and paths: finally settling to circle a tree. Ragged and creviced bark scratched her flesh and she bathed in the sun between the leaves, her body unmoving then and stretching idly. Aysel, the mare knew her own name, purred and chuckled: her eyes linger and stare scrutinizing every leaf and flower: every imperfection. Still she waits a moment before straightening up and wrapping a leg across the other: the wiles of her form ever illuminated and those curves readily seen.
Though not allowed, she thinks, her stare smoldering and burning: locked on a branch where thorn and vine have curled and bit into the wood. ‘Such a perfect mark of nature,’ she muses in her own head. ‘It will cut into the bark and scar it, remind anyone that even the most immense of things is not without defeast or marking.’ she cannot imagine her own purr or the seductive tone she would have taken; but Aysel knows one thing and as such she hums, a lullaby- an old Amazonian tune.
A Y S E L
have you seen blood in the moonlight? it appears quite black.