second star to the right; peach & poppy

[Pollute]

Sometimes in his dreams (in the softest, deepest parts of his dreams) he thinks he is flying. He’ll appear from the dark mist (that fine edge that lies on the corner of his vision) with his feet soaring above the ground and his body high among the birds. He’ll carve trails into the fluffy condensation of the clouds, weave between the hazy rays of the sun, and land on storm clouds that roll beneath his legs. They’re incredibly happy dreams (dreams that bring a smile to his sleeping lips, dreams that make him squirm and whisper with delight, dreams that leave an impression over the next day) and he values their warmth when he wakes to find his side leaning against a tree rooted into the inevitable ground.

He wakes that way (hip comfortably resting against the tree, feet uncomfortably resting on the ground) and startles himself with his surroundings. He hadn’t anticipated falling asleep in the Playground. There are many foals younger than him in his ripe old age of a year old and he wouldn’t want to drop his cool act in front of the adolescences. But it still happened, so he shakes his dark shoulders and heads away from the shadow of the tree.

He watches them all with a mild sort of interest (it’s an offhand expression and sort of uncaring, his nose almost just wrinkles and his ears only so twist toward a laugh) but most of his attention is drawn toward the Playground fairy. Ever since he started coming here regularly (although he rarely played with the other foals, mainly lingering near the trees fantasizing about flying above them) he’d adored the watchful fairy as she guarded over the children. He found her magic enchanting and all-powerful. Although a petite, skinny slice of him wished for that sort of enchantment, he was more amazed by what she could do rather than what he might be able to do.

So the yearling settles himself near a shallow creek (the water barely comes to the top of his hoof; it has to be shallow for those clumsy newborns after all) and watches as she heals bruised knees and solves arguments and scares off a badger with a single thought.

pollute.

[Peach||Poppy]

The girls move through the playground, bickering as to how they should go about looking for others. Peach, being the more outspoken and bold one, tells her pale sister that she needed to go and hush up. Poppy always rolled her eyes at the spotted girl with a large huff. They needed to find other foals and yearlings. Wayward ones were the ideal ones. The sisters wanted a sancuary for other young ones to feel safe...wanted.

As the girls walked and scoffed at one another, a boy with rather interesting stockings catches Poppy's attention. She shuts her mouth and offers a smile and it takes Peach a moment to follow her sister's gaze. The boy is looking rather relaxed and collected...and best of all, intelligent. The pair decide with a shrug to go say hello, possibly see where he was from. Limbs move them towards the dark colt and both smile in greeting.

"Hi there, come here often?" The spotted girl, Peach, speaks casually with a crooked smile. Poppy says nothing yet but watches from beneath the veil of a ink dipped forelock, watching the boy curiously.

I'm gonna show him what little girls are made of
Gunpowder and lead

[Pollute]

Home has always been a fickle word for Pollute. It can refer to many different things – an emotion, a place, a person – and it can be many different things – a memory, a laugh, a song. Home is something Pollute doesn’t know well and so he rarely uses the word. His father is someone he has only heard about (an inferno of chaos, a fiery man from the once-Valley) and his mother is someone who only fed him (with carefully-chosen words, with little emotion, with precarious adoration). He cannot rely on family to be his version of home and nor can he rely on emotion.

Perhaps the closest thing he has to home is the fairies. They seem to be everywhere (whether he is alone or not) and he feels them wherever he might travel. Pollute spends most of his time in either the Playground or the Adoption Den, but both offer fairies to guard over the ambitious or frightened or confused children. Even in the spaces in between, he feels one or two of them watching his shoulders, making sure Captain Hook doesn’t slice his skin off.

The two girls seem like their home is each other. His attention is drawn from the fairy tending to an upset filly to the approach of the twins. They don’t look much alike – one dark, one light – but he can see by the familiar way they walk next to each other that they have rarely been separated. Their question is a straightforward one, and a reckless smile takes over Pollute’s face. Give it a few years and he’ll be so charming they’d want him as their own in an instant.

“Often enough,” he says casually, but it sounds more mysterious than anything. Although not entirely educated on the knowledge of behavior, Pollute can tell they are hiding something behind their pretty faces. He decides not to broach that topic outright, instead turning his attention back toward the fairy. She’s finished up with the filly by now; instead her glittering eyes scan the crowd for signs of danger. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Again, it’s a casual statement. Yet it is laced with hidden adoration. His eyes return toward the sisters. “I’m Pollute.”

pollute.

[Raeanne]

raeanne et fato, quod non scietur   She has only just begun to venture out on her own. Still shy, still uncertain, but craving the independence that comes with growing up. And while the chestnut filly feels like she is being brave, part of her acknowledges that her grand adventure is to one of the safest places in Beqanna. Brave indeed. Still she has come alone and that is something. However, the gall to walk right up to someone and start a conversation is missing. And so she flits around the edges of the small meadow. Nosing the grass, staring up at the waving tree branches and admiring the blueness of the sky. These activities only occupy her for a short while though and as she grows more comfortable in this new place her boldness grows as well. She watches a lovely pair of girls walk up and engage a young colt in conversation. She wants to be like them. So she edges closer. Her feet shuffle awkwardly across the tender green shoots of spring. Her eyes, bright green as well, match the newness of spring. Her nerves multiple as she becomes ever closer to the trio. Finally she is within speaking distance. She has to say something now or appear even more awkward then she must already look. “Umm.. hello.” Can they see her trembling legs, will they notice the waver in her voice. How could she come from such brave stock and be such a shy thing. “I’m Raeanne.” vivianne x rigdon