08-20-2015, 02:23 AM
My eyes land on a golden shimmering coat—but I smelt her before I saw her. She smelt of meadow-dwelling and a feminine perfume. Before I even took her in, saw her, I knew I was nervous.
I have met Amazonian warriors, but they hardly count.
I have been told I am handsome, before. It was by local women in the jungle and therefore their opinion is mute. They are supposed to say that, out of respect for my very well known (and perhaps intimidating) mother. It is like a relative pinching your cheeks and admiring how old, and grown you are. That sort of compliment.
I am built sturdy; thankfully my mother isn’t very feminine and therefore the amount of “pretty” qualities I was given are minimal. I am tall, elegant, refined, and chiseled. I like to say the diet of Amazonians has helped me stay lean regardless of my low ambition for exercise and adventure. I have low muscle tone, which could certainly be built and sculpted should I decide to but for right now I appear more like a dainty warmblood than anything. My coat has essentially grayed to a mousey-black tone that has warm hues of charcoal gray mixed amongst heavy onyx dapples. My hair is wind knotted and caressed by grass leaving a long tangled weave of hair at my side.
I am handsome, yes. But not special.
She, Cress (as she introduces herself) is pretty. She has a white blaze and a sunshine coat with a heavy show of femininity. Her eyes land on me in an odd way, I see right through her like a book that screams it’s words.
She might be a nobody to those who don’t matter, but for someone who has never met anything before, she is someone to Dalten.
“It is alright,” I reply, settling the sparks of white light still threatening to shimmer around my hocks. I find magic embarrassing, obnoxious, and self-benefiting. I try not to use it, or show it around others out of fear of judgment. The war might have been years, and years before my time, but the anger from it still lingers. I will not poke a sleeping bear.
“Dalten,” is how I respond with a cooler tone and more withdrawn expression. I am not good at socializing. I tend to be more reserved, and quiet. I watch others interact for the sole purpose of learning. If I am not good at it, I must observe to be better because I don’t like practicing either. I like where I am and if I could be successful without having to be talented in talking, then I would.
Let’s be real though, it isn’t about what you know, it is who you know. And I can watch other’s and know how to talk to things, but I will never get anywhere unless someone knows me.
And this is called a dilemma.
“How are you?” Is what I manage to poke out next only because from what I have watched, this is how you continue a formal greeting.
Tada.
OOC: It's okay
Mine is crap too. I am rusty
I have met Amazonian warriors, but they hardly count.
I have been told I am handsome, before. It was by local women in the jungle and therefore their opinion is mute. They are supposed to say that, out of respect for my very well known (and perhaps intimidating) mother. It is like a relative pinching your cheeks and admiring how old, and grown you are. That sort of compliment.
I am built sturdy; thankfully my mother isn’t very feminine and therefore the amount of “pretty” qualities I was given are minimal. I am tall, elegant, refined, and chiseled. I like to say the diet of Amazonians has helped me stay lean regardless of my low ambition for exercise and adventure. I have low muscle tone, which could certainly be built and sculpted should I decide to but for right now I appear more like a dainty warmblood than anything. My coat has essentially grayed to a mousey-black tone that has warm hues of charcoal gray mixed amongst heavy onyx dapples. My hair is wind knotted and caressed by grass leaving a long tangled weave of hair at my side.
I am handsome, yes. But not special.
She, Cress (as she introduces herself) is pretty. She has a white blaze and a sunshine coat with a heavy show of femininity. Her eyes land on me in an odd way, I see right through her like a book that screams it’s words.
She might be a nobody to those who don’t matter, but for someone who has never met anything before, she is someone to Dalten.
“It is alright,” I reply, settling the sparks of white light still threatening to shimmer around my hocks. I find magic embarrassing, obnoxious, and self-benefiting. I try not to use it, or show it around others out of fear of judgment. The war might have been years, and years before my time, but the anger from it still lingers. I will not poke a sleeping bear.
“Dalten,” is how I respond with a cooler tone and more withdrawn expression. I am not good at socializing. I tend to be more reserved, and quiet. I watch others interact for the sole purpose of learning. If I am not good at it, I must observe to be better because I don’t like practicing either. I like where I am and if I could be successful without having to be talented in talking, then I would.
Let’s be real though, it isn’t about what you know, it is who you know. And I can watch other’s and know how to talk to things, but I will never get anywhere unless someone knows me.
And this is called a dilemma.
“How are you?” Is what I manage to poke out next only because from what I have watched, this is how you continue a formal greeting.
Tada.
OOC: It's okay
Mine is crap too. I am rusty