04-16-2015, 05:03 PM
Something about what Nihlus had said resonated with me. I do have a small life. And while I enjoy my life the way that is already is, perhaps I could be doing something more. I am not bold enough for any major decisions, so I do what everyone has already done, and I make my way to the Meadow.
The trees are beginning to change color here, and I am reminded of the autumn in the Dale. It has been years since I have seen tries with such a fiery palate, so for a long while I simply stand in the shade of a copse of yellow-leaved aspens and observe. There is a bit of a nip in the air despite the bright afternoon sunshine, and my pale coat is extremely thin. I consider leaving, but then what would have been the point of this whole venture – to look at the leaves?
No, I decide, I should probably at least talk to someone new.
I know most horses in the Desert, and presumably most of the horses here in the Meadow will be strangers. Perhaps here I can blend in, and I will not be looked at with pity and soothed for a pain I do not truly feel. Blend in, I think as I look around at the population of the Meadow, might be more difficult than I had thought. Though my curling horns are the only mythic thing about me, I am tall and broad and pale, eighteen hands tall with the bulk to match. Though I had not inherited the black (and black and white) coats of my parents, I do have my mother’s spots, though mine are red instead of the black that my brother and sisters have.
I step away from the shelter of the beech copse, knowing that being in the center of things will probably make it easier to find someone to talk to. I look around curiously, and despite my potentially menacing size, I am smiling and my hazel eyes are warm.
The trees are beginning to change color here, and I am reminded of the autumn in the Dale. It has been years since I have seen tries with such a fiery palate, so for a long while I simply stand in the shade of a copse of yellow-leaved aspens and observe. There is a bit of a nip in the air despite the bright afternoon sunshine, and my pale coat is extremely thin. I consider leaving, but then what would have been the point of this whole venture – to look at the leaves?
No, I decide, I should probably at least talk to someone new.
I know most horses in the Desert, and presumably most of the horses here in the Meadow will be strangers. Perhaps here I can blend in, and I will not be looked at with pity and soothed for a pain I do not truly feel. Blend in, I think as I look around at the population of the Meadow, might be more difficult than I had thought. Though my curling horns are the only mythic thing about me, I am tall and broad and pale, eighteen hands tall with the bulk to match. Though I had not inherited the black (and black and white) coats of my parents, I do have my mother’s spots, though mine are red instead of the black that my brother and sisters have.
I step away from the shelter of the beech copse, knowing that being in the center of things will probably make it easier to find someone to talk to. I look around curiously, and despite my potentially menacing size, I am smiling and my hazel eyes are warm.