04-19-2015, 03:25 PM
She was never that special a mare, at least in her eyes. Taqqiq is but a simple Arabian, a silvery-white girl with an equally light mane and tail. She knows that she's rather plain—while some may think the silver-tinted girl is beautiful, she is sure that she is average, and her bubbly, optimistic personality is probably annoying to many. That is probably why she's been traveling alone for a while yet.
She halts by a small pool of water, gazing at her reflection for a moment. A grey, dished face stares back at her, and she sighs. She has been her only company for the last few months, and she feels the loss keenly. A leaf falls from overhead, past her face, and shatters her visage in the pool of water. The water spirals outward, and she cannot help but watch. Eventually, though, the young mare grows bored of staring at a puddle and whips around.
Her long, lean legs carry her over the rolling hills, past the occasional tree, and over the occasional stream. With her dished head lifted and her high-set silver banner curled over her back, she is the image of a true Arabian, a desert horse that is rather out of place in this field of green grasses. She slides to a halt and half-rears in the open meadow, letting out a shrill whinny to anyone and everyone in the vicinity. Were there other horses around? Maybe. She wouldn't be opposed to meeting them. With another whinny, she tosses her head, calling out again, summoning anyone in the vicinity to a conversation with her. Come what may.
She halts by a small pool of water, gazing at her reflection for a moment. A grey, dished face stares back at her, and she sighs. She has been her only company for the last few months, and she feels the loss keenly. A leaf falls from overhead, past her face, and shatters her visage in the pool of water. The water spirals outward, and she cannot help but watch. Eventually, though, the young mare grows bored of staring at a puddle and whips around.
Her long, lean legs carry her over the rolling hills, past the occasional tree, and over the occasional stream. With her dished head lifted and her high-set silver banner curled over her back, she is the image of a true Arabian, a desert horse that is rather out of place in this field of green grasses. She slides to a halt and half-rears in the open meadow, letting out a shrill whinny to anyone and everyone in the vicinity. Were there other horses around? Maybe. She wouldn't be opposed to meeting them. With another whinny, she tosses her head, calling out again, summoning anyone in the vicinity to a conversation with her. Come what may.