11-16-2017, 01:38 AM
Femur knows firsthand the world is a cruel place, having been reared on the sorry destitute tit that was Pangea. Knowing that her father was the king there had not spared her from a rather lean upbringing. Only her mother had shown her any kindness and that was because Sinew loved her sons and daughters but she also raised them on handfuls of ancestral stories, stern looks, and a bevy of nips and kicks. Sinew taught them discipline and obedience to Pollock and herself, that family mattered, but life was cruel and no path in life could be walked easy or cheerfully. Femur was taught that one had to make their own way in life or let life beat them up and toss them around.
Wound did not look like the type to continue to let life beat her up. Hence, why Femur had been so quick to offer her a place to live and make a name for herself. Beneath the soft exterior and the bum leg, there was determination and enough sand in the mare’s craw for Femur to take an instant shine to her and that was rare for Femur to do in the first place. Wound had ignored the sour sad looks of those around her and let them fall off her thick skin like water on a duck’s back. She had answered Femur’s questions in a manner that pleased the ghost-girl enough to think she had a backbone despite first appearances. Remember, appearances can be deceiving and that was a lesson learned well at her mother’s flank.
Femur keeps the walk short and deliberate. Unlike her mate who indulged in a swim that produced sore muscles, she opts for them to cross the tidal flats once the tide has gone out. This little bit of thoughtfulness for Wound is not common to the ghost-girl but she takes it in stride, making no mention of how she timed their sojourn to Tephra at the right moment to coincide with the low tide. She also makes the trip in silence, seeming to sense that this newfound comrade doesn’t talk much and what is there to talk about? The tide being out? The tepid climate that is characteristic of Tephra in any season? Too banal, silence was the better option to mindless chatter.
She does look back now and then, to make sure that Wound still trails her. Femur does not set a fast pace nor does she slow to a crawl to ensure that the limping mare can follow her. That seems rather unwise to cater to what is obvious - the malformed leg but Femur sees no reason to bring further attention to it. Wound grew up somehow, survived this long, and well… life was cruel and Femur, showing small kindnesses as best as she can, is no less cruel or concise in her actions. The pace is set, the walk is done, the air is warmer and she is home. Odd to think this place is home but she catches snippets of her shiny blue mate’s scent on the air and that makes this place seem like home to her, because of him. He’ll be so proud of her for doing something productive, she thinks, the hint of a smile coming to her lips.
“Oh,” she comes to an abrupt halt. Names, like manners, seemed not to occur to her much. It had taken days for her mate to find her name out but that was because he’d named her and she preferred his name to her own, sometimes. Now she was finding out that she liked how her original name sounded in his mouth, dark, dirty, and desired. She shook her head momentarily, not quite apologetic but as close as Femur is like to get to it. “I’m Femur.”
Wound. Their names are similar but she does not think the silver bay is apt to be easily wounded, spiritually or mentally at least. She seems rather, durable. “Welcome to Tephra, Wound.” She notes the curiosity in the mare’s eyes. “Eager to explore?” it is a general question, Femur can show her around. There are so many delicious haunts here to poke one’s nose into.
Wound did not look like the type to continue to let life beat her up. Hence, why Femur had been so quick to offer her a place to live and make a name for herself. Beneath the soft exterior and the bum leg, there was determination and enough sand in the mare’s craw for Femur to take an instant shine to her and that was rare for Femur to do in the first place. Wound had ignored the sour sad looks of those around her and let them fall off her thick skin like water on a duck’s back. She had answered Femur’s questions in a manner that pleased the ghost-girl enough to think she had a backbone despite first appearances. Remember, appearances can be deceiving and that was a lesson learned well at her mother’s flank.
Femur keeps the walk short and deliberate. Unlike her mate who indulged in a swim that produced sore muscles, she opts for them to cross the tidal flats once the tide has gone out. This little bit of thoughtfulness for Wound is not common to the ghost-girl but she takes it in stride, making no mention of how she timed their sojourn to Tephra at the right moment to coincide with the low tide. She also makes the trip in silence, seeming to sense that this newfound comrade doesn’t talk much and what is there to talk about? The tide being out? The tepid climate that is characteristic of Tephra in any season? Too banal, silence was the better option to mindless chatter.
She does look back now and then, to make sure that Wound still trails her. Femur does not set a fast pace nor does she slow to a crawl to ensure that the limping mare can follow her. That seems rather unwise to cater to what is obvious - the malformed leg but Femur sees no reason to bring further attention to it. Wound grew up somehow, survived this long, and well… life was cruel and Femur, showing small kindnesses as best as she can, is no less cruel or concise in her actions. The pace is set, the walk is done, the air is warmer and she is home. Odd to think this place is home but she catches snippets of her shiny blue mate’s scent on the air and that makes this place seem like home to her, because of him. He’ll be so proud of her for doing something productive, she thinks, the hint of a smile coming to her lips.
“Oh,” she comes to an abrupt halt. Names, like manners, seemed not to occur to her much. It had taken days for her mate to find her name out but that was because he’d named her and she preferred his name to her own, sometimes. Now she was finding out that she liked how her original name sounded in his mouth, dark, dirty, and desired. She shook her head momentarily, not quite apologetic but as close as Femur is like to get to it. “I’m Femur.”
Wound. Their names are similar but she does not think the silver bay is apt to be easily wounded, spiritually or mentally at least. She seems rather, durable. “Welcome to Tephra, Wound.” She notes the curiosity in the mare’s eyes. “Eager to explore?” it is a general question, Femur can show her around. There are so many delicious haunts here to poke one’s nose into.
ooc: too tired for html lol <3