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A S H A M I N
on his own
on his own
Ashamin was not used to being so alone. He had known only one other--two, if you counted the presence of gasping breath and a body growing cold beside his nascent understanding of life. And in all the time that he had lived, which felt now to be so long, he had never met anyone else.
He had held auditions for a new friend with the small birds tittering in the trees above, but none had fit the bill. The mice crawling around his feet as he slept were poor companions. The wind, the sky, the endless breathing of the grass as it rustled between the clefts in his hooves, even these all came up short to the memory of his father. And it was just as well, he assured himself, for seeking replacement for something lost would do nothing but deepen his sorrow.
But what was sorrow? He wasn't even certain of that. As he dragged his body slowly into the forest of this unfamiliar land, cold in its season but still warmer than the land he had called home for so many years, he pondered the question. He turned to notice the faint lines his dragging tail had left in the dirt, and stamped a hoof with light frustration. No, there was simply nothing to do about himself now. He was alone, he was an ignorant, sloppy mess of a colt ever still. His eyes may have aged, his pockmarked horn may have twisted with the passing of time, but his face and his body were young. His mind was young.
He found relief in the wide, rough side of a tree trunk. He had been walking for so long, and had seen nothing to give him hope--nothing but this very tree. As he pressed his flank against it, forcing his weight against its ringed strength, he closed his eyes softly and took in the weak scents around him. His horn scratched his lip as he raised it to take in the air, but he was so used to the sensation now that he couldn't bring himself to reflect the twinge of pain as the scab from the last time was knocked from his flesh. He resigned himself and lowered his head instead, taking comfort in the slight shifting of the stone encased in his horn. If he was to lose everything, his family that had been his life for three years (so many, he thought to himself again, knowing full well how few they really were,) then at least he could remember them like this.
As the warm sun began to set, and the chill drew closer to Ashamin's fast-beating breast, the young stallion looked up. His heart was heavy, his horn was a leaden weight pulling his muzzle to the earth like a stone. What was sorrow, he wondered again. Was sorrow the call of the downtrodden or simply the lonely? And were the lonely forgotten or simply never known?
And what was he, he thought with fear as the wide orange stretches of fading sun cast long shadows over the threshold woods. What was he now, in the wake of his sire's death, if never by anyone known?
[[OOC: Ashamin is brand new to me and I am still working him out, so apologies if my posts aren't particularly poetic at the start, here. I have nowhere in mind for him, so all are welcome.
Best, Jen]]
He had held auditions for a new friend with the small birds tittering in the trees above, but none had fit the bill. The mice crawling around his feet as he slept were poor companions. The wind, the sky, the endless breathing of the grass as it rustled between the clefts in his hooves, even these all came up short to the memory of his father. And it was just as well, he assured himself, for seeking replacement for something lost would do nothing but deepen his sorrow.
But what was sorrow? He wasn't even certain of that. As he dragged his body slowly into the forest of this unfamiliar land, cold in its season but still warmer than the land he had called home for so many years, he pondered the question. He turned to notice the faint lines his dragging tail had left in the dirt, and stamped a hoof with light frustration. No, there was simply nothing to do about himself now. He was alone, he was an ignorant, sloppy mess of a colt ever still. His eyes may have aged, his pockmarked horn may have twisted with the passing of time, but his face and his body were young. His mind was young.
He found relief in the wide, rough side of a tree trunk. He had been walking for so long, and had seen nothing to give him hope--nothing but this very tree. As he pressed his flank against it, forcing his weight against its ringed strength, he closed his eyes softly and took in the weak scents around him. His horn scratched his lip as he raised it to take in the air, but he was so used to the sensation now that he couldn't bring himself to reflect the twinge of pain as the scab from the last time was knocked from his flesh. He resigned himself and lowered his head instead, taking comfort in the slight shifting of the stone encased in his horn. If he was to lose everything, his family that had been his life for three years (so many, he thought to himself again, knowing full well how few they really were,) then at least he could remember them like this.
As the warm sun began to set, and the chill drew closer to Ashamin's fast-beating breast, the young stallion looked up. His heart was heavy, his horn was a leaden weight pulling his muzzle to the earth like a stone. What was sorrow, he wondered again. Was sorrow the call of the downtrodden or simply the lonely? And were the lonely forgotten or simply never known?
And what was he, he thought with fear as the wide orange stretches of fading sun cast long shadows over the threshold woods. What was he now, in the wake of his sire's death, if never by anyone known?
[[OOC: Ashamin is brand new to me and I am still working him out, so apologies if my posts aren't particularly poetic at the start, here. I have nowhere in mind for him, so all are welcome.
Best, Jen]]
See Ashamin's profile for more information about Lochan, Rakt, and his various items.
All magic and force allowed, barring death and permanent injury.
Do not tag me, please message on skype instead
