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flowers in your hair - Owl - 12-23-2012 Owl. That’s what they called her back home. Owl. It wasn’t due to her quiet nature, she was neither outspoken nor silent in a group. It wasn’t due to her coloring, though the tawny, sandy golden-brown nature of her coat and mane reflected that of a barn owl. Instead it was due to quite an odd, abstract reason—her eyes. Hazel in color with a dark rim of some indiscernible hue, they were large, perfectly spherical, and framed by black lashes that seemed almost wastefully pantomime when taken into account with the relative plainness of the rest of her. She often wondered if she saw the world differently than the others with their narrow eyes and equally narrow minds; Owl always seemed to be freer of spirit and soul. At heart, she was a drifter, wandering through life but never quite participating fully: a modern day hippie with indie folk songs in her head and dulcet tones in her voice. Thus with her own four legs, a song, some worldly advice and not much else, she arrived in the Threshold. The scenery was decent, Owl had to admit. Pines towered over her small fragility, making her feel wonderfully small and insignificant. The air was fresh and clean and smelled of spring. Mountains towered in the distance, Owl could barely make them out from behind the tree line. The young mare walked along the well trodden path laid out in front of her—divine providence if there ever was such a thing—determined to follow it to its completion. She walked quietly but with purpose, making no effort to neither disguise her presence nor alert the masses to it. The natural rhythm of this place reminded her of home. The songbirds sung their cheerful salutes to the midday sun, the pine needles rustled in the warm breeze, the sun smiled down upon the patches of land not shrouded by the puffy clouds rolling above. Owl smiled, her large eyes taking in all that nature was giving her and collecting it in her heart, condensing it into song. “It’s a long road to wisdom, but it’s a short road to being ignored. Be in my eyes, be in my heart…” Owl could never feel as joyous as when she was singing and one with the wilderness, singing its song like the bird of her namesake. RE: flowers in your hair - Jackal2 - 12-23-2012
RE: flowers in your hair - Owl - 12-23-2012 It was a bit past midday when Owl noticed the birds around her going quieter and the forest going stiller. Her petite ears perked up—why have they stopped singing with me?—when that reason became abundantly clear. Someone approached in the distance, their hooves also falling in time to the same beat that Owl’s did; the beat of wild things in harmony. She was not scared of someone happening upon her. She was more excited than anything, the prospect of meeting a new stranger excited her. Owl had been alone for quite a long time in her travels throughout the mountains and forests and prairies, meeting others briefly and disappearing the next morning. Some say she might have a fear of earthly attachments, but Owl disagreed. It was not a fear, per se, more like a realization that everything in this life is temporary and must be treated as such. The footfalls of the stranger drew nearer and came louder; they were the self-assured footsteps of a brave man, a proud man. He came out of the brush like a portrait or statue, perfect in his muscle chisel and nearly flawless in his coloring—the mark of the Appaloosa was on him, spoiling the rich mahogany with white speckles, much like freckles mark a porcelain face. He came to a halt before Owl, smiling though it seemed an effort to make it genuine and not weary. She smiled in turn, a soft, nondescript Mona Lisa smile, but it was genuine nonetheless. “Your song is lovely,” he said in soft tones matching her own, though his were much lower than her own gentle alto. “You travel a trail well-worn, but you are unlike those who follow it.” He halts here, perhaps collecting his thoughts. “What do you seek in Helovia?” There is deeper meaning in this question. Owl’s smile curls up around her lips and she answers him. “Thank you. I seek understanding and knowledge of the inner parts of nature that I have yet to discover. I want to know why these bluebirds sing, why these squirrels chatter in their trees. It’s different in every kingdom, every realm.” Her thanks was sincere, her reasoning honest. A glint of bronze caught her owlish eyes from above; a dragon circled above the duo. Owl assumed that its master was the stallion standing in front of her—wild dragons are notoriously prone to attacking, while this one seemed perfectly docile and controlled. His dragon’s coloring contrasted perfectly with his odd silver eyes, metallic and bright with youth and zest. Owl felt like he was a good person—such a rare commodity these days. Her sandy ears flicked around, taking in all the sounds around as her creamy mane and tail wafted in the gentle breeze that rolled off the mountainside and leaked in through the trees. It was cool and refreshing, the sun was warm and welcoming; a perfect spring day if there ever was one. This pleased Owl greatly. While she enjoyed all seasons and all phases of nature, spring, the time of rebirth and greenery, was her favorite. RE: flowers in your hair - Jackal2 - 12-27-2012
RE: flowers in your hair - Owl - 12-27-2012 Water is my eye, my most faithful mirror, fearless on my breath… A moment of silence between the duo passes, but the awkwardness normally accompanying such a thing isn’t present. She feels his eyes on her and she looks back at him, matching his gaze. “There are plenty of squirrels and bluebirds where I reside,” he tells her, smiling. Owl laughs—silver bells tinkling on a perfect winter night—she’s quite pleased with his answer. She tries to imagine what kind of place could hold such a stallion as this. Where would he live? By the sea, fresh salt and sand permanent fixtures on his pelt? Or perhaps in the forest, leaves stuck in his mane and tail, proof of the tree’s acceptance and amiability towards him, their gentle tolerance being felt in the way the branches bent back from him, greeting him and welcoming him home from his travels. Or maybe both were off—perhaps his home was with the rolling hills of the prairie, tall grasses tickling his barrel as he walked, quails and grouses good-naturedly giving chase when he approached too close to their precious clutches of eggs. Owl’s ears twitched as her lips did in humor at the thought of the large stallion in front of her being chased off by an indignant bird mother. He speaks again, this time in reference to her not-so-subtle inquisitive look at the dragon circling above them. “That is Dei, my dragon.” His statement is punctuated by the lovely creature dipping lower, weaving beneath the leaves and branches like water. “I am Jackal, the King of Theives. I live in a pleasant green valley not far north of this forest. Mountains shelter it from snow and sun, and the wildflowers are in bloom.” So she hadn’t been correct at all—he lived a peaceful life in a lush valley. Owl could hear the implied capitals in the sentence as well; that was his title, he was somebody important, someone that had done brave things and gotten his reward. Owl had no title of her own and idly wondered what it would be if she ever did brave things to earn it. Owl the Indie? Owl the Innocent? Owl the if-it-was-possible-to-smoke-pot-she-would? She laughed inwardly. Just the name Owl was enough to satisfy her for now. “I’m Owl. Your home sounds lovely, your words tempt me to visit.” Her large eyes practically glowed with the promise of new places to explore, her little ears stood at rapt attention, her slender body relaxed but poised to go. His cautionary words put only a slight damper on her mood—“It is best we do not stay long here.” Owl couldn’t see how the friendly, bright forest could be threatening at all, but trusted his advice seeing as he’d lived here for at least a while, longer than her. He begins to walk away, and Owl follows him after a few paces, walking through the Threshold and onwards to what Owl would now call home. The word rung strange in her head—she’d never had a permanent home, not in her adult life. |