12-30-2018, 08:02 AM
Ichor goes west —
She crosses the river into the forest then begins the long arduous trek towards… well, she has no true destination or purpose in place. There is a land of hills and plants that are familiar to her and after that, more forests and the unknown. Until she faces the sea and decides to let the tide go out before making her next move to the island sighted across the way.
The mare knows she cannot fly. Not even with the wings on her back. They are large and mostly useless except in warning off predators. Decorative mostly, and she’s okay with that. Ichor is used to the whispers and stares - it comes from being a genetic oddity. Six legs and a pair of useless wings is enough to cause quite a few stares. Same with the big compound eyes that reign over her face; the kind of homely could-have-been-beautiful face that only a mother can love.
She hadn’t seen it at first since it takes a while for her eyes to bring everything together into one unjumbled picture. But there is a bridge, looking insubstantial and beautiful as it is crafted out of twilight. Naturally she is drawn to the soft clean light of it. More moth-like impulse than horse. So the mare maneuvers down the shoreline until she tests the bridge with one of six hooves and it seems to hold. Then with a leap, she is on it and trotting happily across.
Before her is a strange peeling relic of wood in a shape that she doesn’t recognize. Give her a flower and she can tell everything about it, but some back-arched and spouting aquatic-looking thing? No, even with the gills on her neck that flutter so delicately like small fins on occasion because of her proximity to water or some kind, she remains land-bound most of the time.
(she’ll take the familiar bends and crooks of the River and that’s the extent of it; no seafaring for her because it scares her and she still doesn’t fully trust her own unnatural quarks that make her so odd)
The moth-mare moves slowly and cumbersomely through the snowy-sands after having stepped down from the bridge made of twilight. Palm trees sway in breezes clipped and cold - but not too cold! Just cold enough to make one’s breath steam in the air and make one want to lean against someone else for some shared warmth. Not her though; she’s drawn to the small twilit-lights twinkling amongst the winter-painted tropical vegetation. It’s like paradise but contained, neither blistering hot nor freezing cold.
It stirs her wings until they flare full and beautiful off her back, displaying the atlas moth pattern so vividly for all to see. That same chilled breeze toys with her hair, blowing it around until it’s bisecting her compound gaze and everything is an incoherent jumble of color. Hesitant, her proboscis unfurls from her mouth as if casting about for some fine flower’s elixir to imbibe.