10-16-2019, 04:57 PM
Autumn draws a damp chill, the scent of decaying leaves filter through the last of the green leaves that clung to nearly naked branches. Bird song has ceased to fill the air as they have turned south with their lives for instinct drives them what has been their habits for hundreds of years. Mist rolls from the gurgling river in a thin veil as it creeps towards the shore soundlessly.
The shape of a horse dully forms and grows with each passing breath. It fills a once voided area with her form, elegant and refined, as Epithet steps from the dewy cloud with a solid thud as she breaches the place between element and equine. As she pulls landward, the well structure face solidifies and forms that is soon followed by the curl of a pale neck covered in perfect ringlets, draped heavily and decorated with wildflowers. A soft groan creases her dark lips as lashes fall momentarily to shield her eyes from the wink of a stray sun ray. Epithet fully manifests, her shifting jagged and uneven for a moment, as she has realized she had slept for too long.
The river gives a cheerful gurgle of of approval as she swings her head back to admire the freedom to just float away. The porcelain dappled woman does not speak but allows the world to cave in around her with the crushing weight of decades to fall upon her slender shoulders. She is not a tall creature but stands more like a stub of a mare despite the careful carve of her nearly dainty form. A long tail braided by silver and iron lay dragging in the wet sand.
Beqanna as it always will be...everlasting and eternal. Not much is certain in her life save the fact that Beqanna would always recall her to it's breast (that she would greedily and gleefully return to). Others seemed occupied in their conversations whilst some openly gawked at her manifestation. So many here now possess a magic that others in her younger days had killed for. Did they understand their gifts or the sacrifices that were made for them? A dark eye slides from one corner to the other slowly as a ripple of fresh ache tears through her spine. She would ground herself now..perhaps seek a loyalty to a land but for now there were too many new faces and too many unknown names to learn upon her foreign tongue.
The tales of mythics and the untraited were stories of lore, written in blood and bound by flesh. Epithet could not forget the nightmares that had slaughtered innocent and corrupted alike. Were there still lands of segregation once more or was the social system still ajoined? Her cloudy thoughts turn to that of Magnus and if he still lived. He had been a beacon of hope once but she doubted if he could recall her short occupation of his time other than the run along the beach where he was horse and she but a hummingbird.
The shape of a horse dully forms and grows with each passing breath. It fills a once voided area with her form, elegant and refined, as Epithet steps from the dewy cloud with a solid thud as she breaches the place between element and equine. As she pulls landward, the well structure face solidifies and forms that is soon followed by the curl of a pale neck covered in perfect ringlets, draped heavily and decorated with wildflowers. A soft groan creases her dark lips as lashes fall momentarily to shield her eyes from the wink of a stray sun ray. Epithet fully manifests, her shifting jagged and uneven for a moment, as she has realized she had slept for too long.
The river gives a cheerful gurgle of of approval as she swings her head back to admire the freedom to just float away. The porcelain dappled woman does not speak but allows the world to cave in around her with the crushing weight of decades to fall upon her slender shoulders. She is not a tall creature but stands more like a stub of a mare despite the careful carve of her nearly dainty form. A long tail braided by silver and iron lay dragging in the wet sand.
Beqanna as it always will be...everlasting and eternal. Not much is certain in her life save the fact that Beqanna would always recall her to it's breast (that she would greedily and gleefully return to). Others seemed occupied in their conversations whilst some openly gawked at her manifestation. So many here now possess a magic that others in her younger days had killed for. Did they understand their gifts or the sacrifices that were made for them? A dark eye slides from one corner to the other slowly as a ripple of fresh ache tears through her spine. She would ground herself now..perhaps seek a loyalty to a land but for now there were too many new faces and too many unknown names to learn upon her foreign tongue.
The tales of mythics and the untraited were stories of lore, written in blood and bound by flesh. Epithet could not forget the nightmares that had slaughtered innocent and corrupted alike. Were there still lands of segregation once more or was the social system still ajoined? Her cloudy thoughts turn to that of Magnus and if he still lived. He had been a beacon of hope once but she doubted if he could recall her short occupation of his time other than the run along the beach where he was horse and she but a hummingbird.
E P I T H E T