"Delightful-" the fuzzy word flutters from her pink and gray kissers, batting the air with invisibly butterfly wings until it circles around your head playfully and lands on the top of your bloodied mug, evaporating into a make-believe cloud of sparkles. Your ears pitch forward, the vixen closing the space between the two of you. Uncomfortably, Ouija stands up once more and stalks off toward where she had chased away the hare, her quickly developing mind realizing that she does not like whatever is is that's going on in your gooey head. Sheba explains that the favor she has is for you to a) Retrieve the rocks and b) Find a way for her to carry them.. Carry them where? How many does she want anyway?

Submissively you nod your crowned skull, empty eyes looking back for the now gone Ouija. Without finding your fuzzy, adventurous companion, you look back up at the mare, allowing your neck to lift your skull up in order to look less childish. The white vixen's explanation sinks in for a moment before you can think of different ways to carry more than a couple of blood-red rock, but you only result in one that will be simple: "You want me to carry them?" Just like the stone you and Africa found we purr, bringing up youthful pictures of a lanky colt version of yourself and the dual-winged playful version of Africa. Your heart nearly sinks at the thought of her well being.

But here before you stands a beautiful mare, accompanied with soft, foreign tones and never-ending braids of hair... Who's soft lips are nearly touching your own rough ones. Nostrils rattle anxiously, empty eyes watching the mare eagerly. We whisper dirty things and aug you on to "be a man," but you somehow avoid even bumping snouts with the mare; instead you turn your eyes away and begin to wade knee-deep in the red-reflected waters. Once standing on top of many round rocks, your jagged right forehoof digs and scoops at the shiny ovals, tossing then toward the close shore.

Water splashes around as you carelessly scoop the apparently beloved rocks from their resting places, ears tilted backward as your underbelly and legs are drenched. This takes a minute or two before the rocks that you had chosen are in shallow enough water to grab. Briskly you walk from the water, dark legs dripping cold, cold water onto the forest floor. "Are these okay?" your voice shakes with your already shivering muscles; the wind may not cut through the forest, but the chill of Frostfall is still heavy and quite present. Dull eyes fall to the rocks, two sitting on the very edge of the pond, half sticking out of the fridged pool: one is nearly a perfect circle, but flat on one side, while the later is a tapering oval that would be a perfect skipping rock.

Text here "Chat here." Voices here
Tagged: @[Sheba]

Table by Frostie