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02-05-2014, 04:42 PM
whoops sorry for the wait
annarey-stock-art | breathless-dk | confussed-stock | frozenstocks | hobbitpunk
she may contain the urge to run away but hold her down with soggy clothes and breezeblocks
Were the skulls of the hornless as bare as their faces? Lothíriel watched the two before her with innocent intent, attempting to extract some kind of meaning from the shuffling of their dull, blunt hooves and the glimmering of the strange light over the curves of their eyes. Abishia and Solace were their names, as strange and plain and beautiful as their anomalous exteriors. They reminded her of the dark stallion that had intruded into her home long ago; he was also as deformed as they. Were equines mutated unicorns, smited by some angry god to be bare-headed and simple minded? Father had stricken down the intruder, and with Arah's help, they had dragged his listless body away, like an impractical sack. Was that what they were, what they deserved? That equine had done nothing wrong; his only fault was overstepping the Basin's border, but Lothíriel had a feeling that it was not what he did, that made him merit the fate he had suffered, but what he was. If her father, Lord of the Basin, decided that such a fate was necessary for this strange populace, then so be it. Through growing ambiguity, the blossom child offered the hulking stallion a polite smile to his kind words. They were not unkind, these strange creatures, if a little offbeat, and under this splendid light everything was wondrous and magical to the silver girl. Intently, she listened to the Mason's words, both unsatisfied and pleased with the answer he gave her. Infection, fleeing—all grim, gruesome words; Lothíriel felt the spark of curiosity seeded in her heart like some ugly weed. Fear and fearlessness mingled in the back of her mind like dueling swords. Why and how and by what and where were they infected? Before she could voice any more questions, Abishia abruptly changed the subject, leaving a trace of indignity stewing in the back of the anthousai's throat like bile. Trivial banter filled her ears—of herds and masons and questions which skirted the obvious, but another kind of curiosity taunted the girl; if they both lacked a horn, did their entire herd? The Basin was a haven for unicorns; were the Foothills one for those less fortunate? "Are they all hornless in the Foothills?" the nymphet blurted aloud, naïve and genuinely wondering. Her lion's tail gave a vague flick, brushing the soft, moist moss below. |
