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06-15-2016, 11:04 AM
Why can't he ever escape these damned labyrinthine trees!
It seems that no matter where Seanan roams in Helovia, he is hedged in by darkness and growth. It seems to him that someone had been much too lenient in the creation of this place. It is verdant and decadent and unchecked. And now it is wet.
It is not that rain is unknown in the desert. Nor is it that he has not encountered such rain in his travels since departing those golden sands. It is just that where he comes from rain is sacred and scarce. They stand in it, huddled close together, letting the water sluice the dust from their coats. Sometimes they run, leaving the basins and valleys for the heights of the dunes when the water thunders unexpectedly down some formerly dry channel. Few had been lost to the treacherous births of new rivers, soon to die when the sun burned the clouds away.
Here though the water is relentless and it is old. There is nothing rejuvenating about it. It is not new or rare or precious. It is just wet, and he hates it. Not for the first time since arriving here, he feels as though he is drowning. He snorts to keep the water from his nostrils as it runs down his muzzle. Even the dense canopy of leaves overhead cannot keep the rain out. Too sunken in his misery, Seanan does not even register the strange quality of the darkness, the verdant growth turned red as blood. He moves slowly, head low, watching his steps in the eternal gloom. His night vision is not excellent but he is pale, and it is at least somewhat easy to see his own hooves even in the dark.
In the darkness he scrapes against another tree trunk. With a sharp squeal of rage, finally tired of the confinement and the damp he lashes out with both hind hooves, back arching and curling. One of his hooves clips a tree while the other strikes empty air and he stumbles to keep his balance. The ground feels as though it heaves and buckles beneath him in the dark, trying to hold him down. To keep him still.
He jerks his front hooves free of the earth and rears, lashing out at shadows. His head draws back, challenging, eyes wild and showing white all around his blood-tinged irises. With a crack his head strikes a low hanging branch and he drops back to all four hooves, legs splayed wide. And he is still trapped.
Still drowning.
It seems that no matter where Seanan roams in Helovia, he is hedged in by darkness and growth. It seems to him that someone had been much too lenient in the creation of this place. It is verdant and decadent and unchecked. And now it is wet.
It is not that rain is unknown in the desert. Nor is it that he has not encountered such rain in his travels since departing those golden sands. It is just that where he comes from rain is sacred and scarce. They stand in it, huddled close together, letting the water sluice the dust from their coats. Sometimes they run, leaving the basins and valleys for the heights of the dunes when the water thunders unexpectedly down some formerly dry channel. Few had been lost to the treacherous births of new rivers, soon to die when the sun burned the clouds away.
Here though the water is relentless and it is old. There is nothing rejuvenating about it. It is not new or rare or precious. It is just wet, and he hates it. Not for the first time since arriving here, he feels as though he is drowning. He snorts to keep the water from his nostrils as it runs down his muzzle. Even the dense canopy of leaves overhead cannot keep the rain out. Too sunken in his misery, Seanan does not even register the strange quality of the darkness, the verdant growth turned red as blood. He moves slowly, head low, watching his steps in the eternal gloom. His night vision is not excellent but he is pale, and it is at least somewhat easy to see his own hooves even in the dark.
In the darkness he scrapes against another tree trunk. With a sharp squeal of rage, finally tired of the confinement and the damp he lashes out with both hind hooves, back arching and curling. One of his hooves clips a tree while the other strikes empty air and he stumbles to keep his balance. The ground feels as though it heaves and buckles beneath him in the dark, trying to hold him down. To keep him still.
He jerks his front hooves free of the earth and rears, lashing out at shadows. His head draws back, challenging, eyes wild and showing white all around his blood-tinged irises. With a crack his head strikes a low hanging branch and he drops back to all four hooves, legs splayed wide. And he is still trapped.
Still drowning.
All interactions are go, short of death and permanent crippling.
