03-26-2020, 03:57 PM
L E P I S
i hear the voice of rage and ruin
The dun mare stands at the edge of the field, breathing in the springtime air as the gust of afternoon wind tugs at the long hair of her navy mane. That hair falls thick and waving across her shoulders after the breeze passes, concealing most of the old scars that mar her neck and back. The open plain ahead of her bustles, as the Field often does. She watches as a roan stallion interacts with a paint in the distance, but does not linger long. Instead, she follows the edge of the treeline with her blue-grey eyes, pausing as she comes across a pale mare who appears to be doing much the same as Lepis: watching.
Intrigued, the pegasus observes the younger mare as she emerges from the shadows. The other moves to stand near – but not too near – most of the assembled horses. Not a social butterfly then, Lepis surmises, or perhaps just not comfortable with strangers. Smart, Lepis thinks, and makes her decision. She is here to expand Loess, but she prides herself on being discerning. Loess needs to grow, but how it grows is far more important than the speed at which it does. A tree that grows too quickly is thin and spindly, breaking at the first harsh gust of wind. Better to grow slowly and more solidly, better to appear unassuming while gathering the strength to stand tall.
“Hello,” Lepis says, drawing to a halt a comfortable distance away from the roan mare. She has no wish to crowd the stranger. “Am I right to assume you are here looking for a home?” The dun mare asks, tilting her head curiously. The other mare is not as young as Lepis had first assumed; she is an adult, if a young one. Perhaps the age of Lepis’ eldest daughter, the monarch thinks to herself. “My name is Lepis, and I am Queen of Loess.”
@[Lomasi]
Intrigued, the pegasus observes the younger mare as she emerges from the shadows. The other moves to stand near – but not too near – most of the assembled horses. Not a social butterfly then, Lepis surmises, or perhaps just not comfortable with strangers. Smart, Lepis thinks, and makes her decision. She is here to expand Loess, but she prides herself on being discerning. Loess needs to grow, but how it grows is far more important than the speed at which it does. A tree that grows too quickly is thin and spindly, breaking at the first harsh gust of wind. Better to grow slowly and more solidly, better to appear unassuming while gathering the strength to stand tall.
“Hello,” Lepis says, drawing to a halt a comfortable distance away from the roan mare. She has no wish to crowd the stranger. “Am I right to assume you are here looking for a home?” The dun mare asks, tilting her head curiously. The other mare is not as young as Lepis had first assumed; she is an adult, if a young one. Perhaps the age of Lepis’ eldest daughter, the monarch thinks to herself. “My name is Lepis, and I am Queen of Loess.”
@[Lomasi]
