the pumpkin queen; any

[Trick or Treat]

i am the one hiding under your bed

The cold does not bother me as I walk in on heavily feathered hooves. My face remains stoic as I enter the field with a casual but confident stride. There were so many other horses here and there with little conversations tying them together in frosted knots. I remain parted away in my own atmosphere like a black asteroid in outer space. I am choosing to not collide just yet into these others.

I am like a dark dragon with steam coming from my nostrils when I finally settle  into this new skin in Beqanna will the slightest discomfort but it will pass. I allow my attention to move away from the others and to clip at the frozen green shards of grass that remained. This winter was harsher and I have lost some weight due to it's grip but come spring, I will fill out once again when food is more plentiful. But for now I will wait for the approach of another as this is how the ritual works. My amber gaze shifts occasionally to watch as others walk through my orbit, brushing against me with little smirks and laughs but I drive them off with pinned ears and gnashing teeth. I am an asset, I understand that, but not for just anyone.

teeth ground sharp and eyes glowing red

[Camelia]

I will run the streets and hostile lands, I will touch the rain with all I have
I will breathe the air, to scream it loud. My feet will never touch the ground.

Her steps are heavy as she walks to the Field. Ever since the world caved into itself and moaned its growing pains, Camelia has had a limp to her step. She’s been wondering most recently if that limp will ever go away (if that achiness in her right shoulder will ever fade, if the scabbed-over gash will ever cause a scar that will fade into nothing, if her pace will ever move smoothly and gently) and part of her knows that it won’t. She’s seen battle wounds before, although this is hardly a battle wound. They rarely disappear and more often than not, come back to haunt the bearer in their older years.

Camelia’s already a decent number of years into her life. She’s loved and been loved, lived and showed others to live, parented well and parented not so well, seen good and seen bad. All in all, if she died now, Camelia would consider her life fulfilling. She doesn’t want to die now; there are too many new things approaching on the horizon. She can almost taste them, breathe them, see them, and hear them. They excite her and perhaps that is the reason her feet bring her to the Field.

There’s a swarm of conversation already blossoming, although she has arrived in the late morning. She’d left in the early morning from Tephra, when the snow was still hard and crusted from the nighttime temperatures. It’s slightly warmer now, with the sun to provide weak heat on her back. Camelia’s eyes immediately find the dark mare. She pins her ears and sneers at anyone who draws too close, providing all the proper signs for a defensive mare. Sympathy warms Camelia’s sweet soul and she slowly approaches.

The wise mare keeps her expression open and warm, her steps slow, and her ears relaxed. She knows it can be confusing (frightening, nerve-wracking, and dangerous) to enter a new world and already have a herd of others begging you to join their land. Camelia understands the need to ease into situations instead of rushing head-on. Although that can sometimes work, it often isn’t the best approach to new circumstances. So the slender dunskin stops a respectful distance away; her feet stop their movement when the dark mare pins her ears and hardens her face.

“I’m Camelia. Can I help you?” Her voice is warm and soft, with a hint of a motherly song. Her nostrils quiver as she scents the mare from her distance. “You don’t smell like you’re from here. This is Beqanna.” She can’t give much more information than that about the world. She’s still learning about new parts of it every day.

Camelia