listening for the pulse that just might drive these hearts tonight, anyone

[Raed]

this is a somewhat recycled post I had found because I suck at starting posts.

I'LL BREAK YOU A HUNDRED DIFFERENT WAYS, AND I'LL MAKE YOU REMEMBER MY FACE. Somewhere over the course of his life, Raed had stopped giving a shit, which was a pretty astonishing feat since he hadn’t really lived all that long. While the awkwardness of adolescence had long since given way to hard lines and sharp angles, there was still little age to be found in his navy-blue eyes. He had lived just long enough to feel that he had an idea what the world was about, but not enough for anything to ruin him. The apathy that had settled in his veins had nothing to do with the trials and tribulations of life. There was no great catastrophe to turn him bitter, nothing that had shattered his heart and left the fragments iced over. He just simply didn’t care because he had yet to find a reason to. He had dipped in and out of various kingdoms, done his fair share of mingling and as far as he knew had just a few children running around, but his life, as far as he was concerned, was fairly meaningless. There was only one girl that had even made somewhat of an impact on his otherwise monotone life, but he would be the last to admit it, and definitely never to her face. He is bright blue, with a cerulean-colored mane that fell in a thick, tangled mess down his oddly colored neck. Yet the color is somewhat hidden by the darkness that has settled in the meadow, the stars glinting lazily above in the spots where clouds didn’t hide them. And as the night fell around him, his vision shifted. No longer did the world come in shades of black, gray and the dappled light that usually accompanied the night. Effortlessly the scenery around him changed, and the objects that emitted heat starkly contrasted against those that did not. It was an odd array of colors, sometimes making it difficult to decipher personal features, but it was merely used as an extra precaution that was sometimes needed with the coming of night. He could survive without it, of course, the same way that everyone else did, but what was the point of having the ability if he never used it? It made it easy to see someone approaching without having to really pay close attention. With half-hidden eyes he watches them, his legs brushing easily through the grasses of the meadow. Winter was barely under way and no snow had yet to fall, but judging by the bite in the air that wouldn’t be put off for long. He walks on, ignoring most as he passes them, and he finds it mildly amusing how it seems that no one in Beqanna ever slept. Everything happened at night in this place. R A E D the cerulean son of trashlip and ryatah

[Oubliette]

Night was easily his favorite time.  No one bothered him at night and he was free to drift across moors and fields and meadows like a specter or perhaps a phooka, daring anyone to grasp his mane and mount his back.  Oubliette looked the part, that much was plain to see.  His mousy grullo coat was inky in the low light of night, the dark primitive markings almost colorlessly black.  His skin stretched taut over a scarecrow-like frame, spindly and rail thin.  Some horses were just born ugly and Oubliette was one of them.  Where one set of longish ears stopped, another set began but they hung low and floppy against his straight neck.

What he was doing in the Meadow, he couldn't say.  Perhaps it was simply because it was easy to walk there.  Few obstacles blocked his path and company was easy to avoid so long as you kept your eyes open and mouth shut.  Lifting his head to get his bearings(not that it mattered, he wasn't going anywhere in particular), his black, ill-tempered eyes caught sight of something strangish and blue.  Another horse was walking in his direction and if neither changed course they would eventually collide.  Oubliette was not prone to curiosity so when he continued on his way it was more because he simply didn't feel like stepping aside.  That was for horses with less apathy and more respect.

The ghoulish grullo was not one to give respect.  He didn't love anyone enough for that.  And it was never love that motivated Oubliette.  Pain, fear, loathing, disgust.  Those were the emotional palette that the stallion painted his world with.  Hate was his security blanket.  He was very good at hate, almost as good as he was with apathy.

Eventually he found himself within feet of the stranger.  Pausing for a moment, his body slouched in a boneless way, he regarded the blue horse with his mean black eyes.  Black lips barely moving he speaks in a slow, rattly voice, "Move."