the Rift


[PRIVATE] Bright Eyes, Black soul

Reginald Posts: 165
Hidden Account atk: 4 | def: 7.5 | dam: 7
Stallion :: Hybrid :: 17.1 hh :: 3 HP: 64 | Buff: NOVICE
Ka'Mate :: Harpy Eagle :: None & Ka'Ora :: Harpy Eagle :: None M.E.
#2


speak

He returns to his meadow; he’s too large for it now. It’s cramped and smelly, it is the crossroads of filth; the forage is nothing new to him—he is bored with it. He knows this place too much; he was born in weakness here; he lived it in this field of twilit thistles. He thought he would like coming home once again; he felt as though is claim on it should be renewed. He finds himself mistaken, stalking amongst the dying and growing thistles, his mouth cast in disgust, his eyes impassive. This place is useless until it is his, and for now, it is forfeit.

The nostalgia of this meadow is one of helplessness. He breathes this air, and smells the intruder; he feels the dirt give away underneath his hoof, and it feels as though a larger hoofprint has beaten it before him. He tastes the water, and thinks himself sipping from the urine of some other stud; he tastes the grass—nothing but feces. The growing heat of his boyish body, his growing manhood, stirs within. It cannot abide by these crimes. He cannot live here like the days of old; Reginald is decided. He will speak with mother.

The air is laden with the odor of hoards, idiots and charlatans, cowards and females alike, scum, unwanted curs. He notices scent he hasn’t smelled in some moons, almost shocked at its appearance. He hasn’t thought of her for some time—she is in his daydreams, mostly, as he conquers the world and brings it to heel, and yet there she is suddenly, a piece of the filthy nostalgia, and the smirk she brings him is one of derisive irony. He does not see her, yet her scent is everywhere, and her presence is not a mere assumption.

“Come here. He doesn’t waste time. She kneeled before him once, and it only takes one oath to swear fealty. “I want to look at you.” The wind stirs the thistles around him, growing soft and purple, springtime stirring many things about the Grey Eye’d prince without his knowledge or permission. He must ask his father one day what fillies and mares are for.




You can't escape the wrath of my heart
Beating to your funeral song
All faith is lost for hell regained

by: Kristi Herbert at flickr


Messages In This Thread
Bright Eyes, Black soul - by Jorogumo - 04-15-2014, 11:13 PM
RE: Bright Eyes, Black soul - by Reginald - 04-20-2014, 11:08 PM
RE: Bright Eyes, Black soul - by Jorogumo - 04-23-2014, 03:51 AM

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