"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
Before McDonald’s, I bet “don’t buy cheeseburgers from a clown” was a pretty hard and fast rule.
Just because nobody wants to or knows how to react to Satty doesn’t mean he won’t come around, most often when the author is tired, or craves attention, or when her state decided to reelect a monstrous callous hell bitch of a senator and she needs the world to be fun and entertaining. Also, like Stuff happened, and some cool horses are coming back (hi Tiphon! Hi Set!), so it’s only natural that a completely irrelevant horse should come back, too.
Right? Right?
Now, the description:
Satire (Satty to his friends, which is everyone) is a not at all on-the-nose named horse, who has been around Beqanna longer than plenty of you have been alive, a complete impossibility given that he’s like 347896789 years old, but time is an illusion and fake horse roleplaying games even more so.
He’s piebald, and put together like a drunk man’s puzzle, nothing fitting right or looking good, and possibly faintly smelling like vomit, even though horses can’t vomit.
(Listen, I had a coworker tell me a story about a friend-of-a-friend who shipped horses on a ferry and said ‘even the horses were throwing up!’ and I, a charming and professional coworker, replied ‘if they were throwing up they’d be dead, horses can’t through up,’ and then for some reason she left my office. Horse vomit [or lack thereof] is the hill I’m willing to die on.)
Satty has done a lot of things in his time at Beqanna, none of them memorable to exactly anyone but him. But that’s okay, because they made him happy, and sometimes that’s all that really matters.
Would he like to have god magic? Sure. But maybe the real god magic is the friends he made along the way.
(What’s that? He doesn’t have friends? Okay, well, maybe the real god magic was the…nights spent alone thinking about trees.)
One thing Satty hasn’t done: get deathly ill with the plague. Or carried it. MAYBE that will change today, as he plunges headlong and heedless into the hauntingly heralded hectares of the hmeadow.
(Alliteration = good writing.)
(I misspelled alliteration at first thank GOD for autocorrect.)
You never know, though! Today could be that day! The world is full of opportunity!
Here he is in the meadow, totally cool, and totally plagueless, maybe, or maybe not.
Bring it.
And there's a lesson waiting to be learned the firestarters always get the burns and the good guys never get the girl
Winter season doesn’t bring many horses out; pregnant mares and foals stay with their herds, stallions, after having cooled down from the breeding season, find it more agreeable to lurk on their own, find what little food there is to be bad.
At least that is what should be. But Beqanna is a magic place and so, she is no broodmare to the strongest herd stallion, but a personality of her own; caring and with thoughts and words. Serious, probably too.
Yes, very serious.
She has not gained the name of a cool horse, to be honest. Nor does she want to be irrelevant but, such is life. Sometimes, one falls a little into the back of a crowd. Sometimes, one gets shoved to the top of the rank board because there is no-one else and sometimes, ponies just stagnate halfway.
Life can be such a bitch sometimes huh. Karma will come for you. Or Kaurma.
The Plague then - still unaffected, even. Has been lingering in old threads and safe lands. Safe as safe can be what with near-wars breaking out over some of those. Good gob fairies. But I guess they’d love to see some action?
Fully white and fully glowing (because the weather is mine to describe and now it is decidedly sunny though cold and white since it is still winter in BQ time), she treads lightly through the hmeadow. It is a beautiful place. Trees obscure the view of course but, honestly Ilma’s writer has no clue about the differences between the meadow and the field. Always jumbles them up.
Ilma then; beautiful creature, harmed and still naive because no matter what I do to her, that seems to be her character. Perhaps she could use a bit of sickness. But Velk would probably heal her. And she’ll go back to the meadow again. Vicious circle.
She would have waved at Satire but she has no hands (because that can’t be a 0-space trait which I still haven’t claimed, I remember now). Instead, she prances up to him and gives him her signature smile, not at all worried but, also not too trusting. That’s what she thinks anyway.
Long story short, she says hi. Have at her, Plague. Or Satire. Or both. I’m curious what she will do.
”Hello there.” Her first words in this entire post and also the last.
Don’t we all love a bit of OOC commenting in a post every now and then. I wonder who else will show up.
and shooting stars cannot fix the world
Any fool knows men and women think differently at times, but the biggest difference is this: men forget, but never forgive; women forgive, but never forget.
It’s cold; very, very, very cold — so cold.
The cold is almost refridgerative; it seeps down past its shell and into its very yolk.
Today the egg has stolen away from Khumas freezing snow-nest and stolen away into the meadow. Don’t ask me how it got from Icicle Isle to here in the meadow, because I don’t know. Maybe it floated all the way down through the ocean to the river like a boat. How will it get home? I’m not sure either but that’s neither here nor there.
(Insert paragraph with poorly written metaphors involving human things that do not relate to ponies. This part is in italics because it’s beautiful.)
So, why does the egg come? It is tired of being so sheltered, mainly because mom is always sitting on it, and today it is out to eggsplore and further eggducate itself.
And so, and so, and so, it scrambles up a little slope leading into the meadow. How? Om-e-let you figure that one out. Once it reaches the peak of the gentle incline it somehow manages to know that a pair of horses are just beyond in the meadow down the slope in front if it. They look (or don’t look, because eggs don’t have eyes as far as I can tell) like good friends. It rolls down the hill hoping it will stop but it doesn’t have brakes so maybe it won’t.
It does - phew! But, when the egg arrives it is certainly very scrambled.
Regardless, it is out looking for friends and not one to be eggnored, it rolls right into this thread and stops parallel to Satty’s side, shell-to-skin, gently rocking back and forth at his side like:
