01-05-2017, 09:42 PM
Sylvane glances toward the eastern horizon where a pale wash of light should be streaming along the hilltops as it does every morning. For a moment, she thinks that her other eye has begun to fail her as the first one did. There are no hilltops, no trees, not even distant mountains. Only a dense, glowing fog and the silhouette of the surrounding forests that seem to float about listlessly, suspended by gray matter. It's not terribly cold, though one thing she can see is her breath spill out in front of her. A sudden and eery sense of being seen, but unable to see creeps in. That is nothing new to her. For several years she's walked--and stumbled--through the world with half of her sight. So she swallows the feeling whole and starts toward the hidden meadow.
It is desolate and she is not sure why surprise has come over her. A summer's day would see the meadows filled with warm bodies and chatter, but a morning like this doesn't draw a single soul but hers. She doesn't have particularly high standards when it comes to company. In fact, it is the dregs of society that suit her saucy nature. Black Sheep. Gypsy. Harlot. Oh, but they are just a few of the titles Sylvane has wore over the years. She's the perfect product of influence, where she's surrounded herself with thieves and scoundrels all her life she's become something of their sort in a refined form.
It doesn't show, even now as she clicks her hooves in to the flatrock by the meadow's creek with a slow, confident stride. She is never without her head held eye and her eyes alight with pleasure even in her dullest moments. And alone in a fog-filled meadow? Why, it doesn't get much duller than that.
It is desolate and she is not sure why surprise has come over her. A summer's day would see the meadows filled with warm bodies and chatter, but a morning like this doesn't draw a single soul but hers. She doesn't have particularly high standards when it comes to company. In fact, it is the dregs of society that suit her saucy nature. Black Sheep. Gypsy. Harlot. Oh, but they are just a few of the titles Sylvane has wore over the years. She's the perfect product of influence, where she's surrounded herself with thieves and scoundrels all her life she's become something of their sort in a refined form.
It doesn't show, even now as she clicks her hooves in to the flatrock by the meadow's creek with a slow, confident stride. She is never without her head held eye and her eyes alight with pleasure even in her dullest moments. And alone in a fog-filled meadow? Why, it doesn't get much duller than that.