04-23-2019, 03:50 PM
Below the waves a soft tune echoes, down in the deep where the murky green water blends into the gray northern sea. Haunting and soft, the melody pitches high and then hovers down low again, the voice that sings it a sweet mixture of sadness. It is unmistakably feminine. Fish swimming nearby pause to listen; even the soft patter of rain on the ocean’s choppy surface seems to soften as the tune passes underneath. Cutting through glassy water like a bright flash of color, Adria numbs herself with the song as she swims close to the knife’s point of Nerine’s great horn, where the cold bites deep into her skin and the cry of traveling whales gives her comfort.
She must rest and eat, but the stormy seas here are too frigid for her to stop. The Nereid mare is forced closer to the shoreline and, eventually, finds herself on a pebbled beach. Underhoof the land is rocky and not so easy to traverse on her fine, dainty hooves yet the sharp face of a rising cliff nearby gives the seahorse reason to push on through the steady downpour of gray rain. There may be scarce trimming near the foot of Nerine’s telltale border for her to eat while she stretches her unused legs, and perhaps if she finds herself lucky a barren cave will reveal itself.
Picking her way through the rubble of multihued rocks, Adria still hums the soft song taught to her by her mother and father. Even though Autumn has only just arrived, the cold winds and freezing rain cling to her overgrown mane and tail like fine crystals; she shifts her skin from scales to fur in hopes of generating some small ounce of warmth, but her teeth clench and her ears go numb all the same. “Ivè Papa yo se bon.” She pleads with the weather, using a small amount of her own magic to create a hardened half-dome of rainwater that will keep the falling precipitation at bay.
Her legs stumble painfully and she goes down, dashing her knee against the stones with a sharp cry of pain just as she reaches the foot of the dark cliff. Bad luck is on her side today, it seems. She knows the feeling of pain and the small trickle of blood down her white-webbed leg will be all the more sore tomorrow, and as she scuffles close to the wall of sediment and clinging lichen she can see (much to her disappointment) that nothing edible remains. Exhausted, the lovely little mare resigns herself to the fate of a cold, hungry night and presses herself to the crag as the ebbing energy of her power flickers. The water-umbrella she’d created falls apart and drenches her to the bone, leaving the lonely female much worse off than she was before.
@[Brennen]
She must rest and eat, but the stormy seas here are too frigid for her to stop. The Nereid mare is forced closer to the shoreline and, eventually, finds herself on a pebbled beach. Underhoof the land is rocky and not so easy to traverse on her fine, dainty hooves yet the sharp face of a rising cliff nearby gives the seahorse reason to push on through the steady downpour of gray rain. There may be scarce trimming near the foot of Nerine’s telltale border for her to eat while she stretches her unused legs, and perhaps if she finds herself lucky a barren cave will reveal itself.
Picking her way through the rubble of multihued rocks, Adria still hums the soft song taught to her by her mother and father. Even though Autumn has only just arrived, the cold winds and freezing rain cling to her overgrown mane and tail like fine crystals; she shifts her skin from scales to fur in hopes of generating some small ounce of warmth, but her teeth clench and her ears go numb all the same. “Ivè Papa yo se bon.” She pleads with the weather, using a small amount of her own magic to create a hardened half-dome of rainwater that will keep the falling precipitation at bay.
She curses herself for leaving so late in the season.
Her legs stumble painfully and she goes down, dashing her knee against the stones with a sharp cry of pain just as she reaches the foot of the dark cliff. Bad luck is on her side today, it seems. She knows the feeling of pain and the small trickle of blood down her white-webbed leg will be all the more sore tomorrow, and as she scuffles close to the wall of sediment and clinging lichen she can see (much to her disappointment) that nothing edible remains. Exhausted, the lovely little mare resigns herself to the fate of a cold, hungry night and presses herself to the crag as the ebbing energy of her power flickers. The water-umbrella she’d created falls apart and drenches her to the bone, leaving the lonely female much worse off than she was before.
@[Brennen]
