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standing on my broken throne
crying out for what was done
crying out for what was done
His eyes were not brown, in fact they were not blue either, which is what her next guess would have been. Standing still and at attention gave her the opportunity to see that his eyes were actually a very soft shade of purple, a color to which she had no name. To be honest it did not really matter, her curiosity was geared more toward the creature at his side. The great lumbering thing was… female, ‘This is my little sister!’ he exclaimed, his excitement great and even intimidating. Sheba took an uncomfortable step back; this level of exuberance was a foreign thing to the filly, being locked in a shell of pain most times. “No I… have not.” and it was true, Bathsheba was only just coming into the discovery of companions.
Through Erebos and Virga, and now this strange colt she was becoming more and more intrigued by the bizarre connection between horse and animal. What? Kind of animal was this thing. It was unlike anything she had yet seen, her fur a painted pattern of dark browns, whites and blacks. Her eyes shifted back and forth in small, narrowed sockets atop a long, thick nose. This little horse claimed it to be his sister and Sheba knew it just was not possible. Yet… “does she..” her voice was small, “have a name?” Upon asking the child realized that she had yet to give her own name and just as suddenly she felt the urge to hide. Bathsheba did not want to give her name away to this colt or his companion, did that make her rude? Did it make her selfish? Would mother be disappointed? These things knocked around the back of her skull as she stood there, water gushing gently over small hooves and pale eyes locked firmly upon the hulking beast at their feet.
@Murtagh
Through Erebos and Virga, and now this strange colt she was becoming more and more intrigued by the bizarre connection between horse and animal. What? Kind of animal was this thing. It was unlike anything she had yet seen, her fur a painted pattern of dark browns, whites and blacks. Her eyes shifted back and forth in small, narrowed sockets atop a long, thick nose. This little horse claimed it to be his sister and Sheba knew it just was not possible. Yet… “does she..” her voice was small, “have a name?” Upon asking the child realized that she had yet to give her own name and just as suddenly she felt the urge to hide. Bathsheba did not want to give her name away to this colt or his companion, did that make her rude? Did it make her selfish? Would mother be disappointed? These things knocked around the back of her skull as she stood there, water gushing gently over small hooves and pale eyes locked firmly upon the hulking beast at their feet.
@Murtagh
