the Rift


I want more and more and more and more

Wessex Posts: 149
Aurora Basin Haruspex atk: 5.0 | def: 8.5 | dam: 7.5
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16.3 hh :: 3 HP: 68 | Buff: NOVICE
Astor
#1

WESSEX




Early morning. In the gauzy fog that drifts lazily up from a warming ground, a darker gray, horned mass looms on the edge of new land. The umpteenth place in an unknown number of places, there is nothing to distinguish it from all the others, she thinks dryly. Pre-dawn light casts its first weak rays through the trees, and she takes it as a sign to move forward. Birds rise, seeking worms, or bugs, or whatever it is they eat. Their calls make the morning seem eerily cheerful, trying to mesh the sounds of the everyday with the unusual looking creature stalking through the low-hanging mists.

Wessex walks slowly, taking her time to observe her surroundings and filter through the unfamiliar smells. Occasionally she stops and stands still, listening intently to forest. Routine information gathering; exits, potential areas for ambush, whatever life here sounds like, so she can register the abnormal, water sources, the smell of death and decay - her analytical, overly cautious brain hashes through the information as best she can. She is in no hurry - the slushy, then frozen over ground tells of equines who have come before her, and she can assume that they were found by whomever lives here, though there is not yet any sign of a guard. Odd.

Thirsty, Wessex eventually finds her way to a small pool of water which seems to be clear enough to drink from. It is fully light now, but fog still lingers in a tiny puff over it, and Wessex lowers her head to dispel it with her horns. She catches sight of herself in the water: orange-yellow eyes stare back at her with a stony intensity. They linger on her horns, sprouting high above her ears and radiating outward, growing smaller in a sort of rusty-red, crimson and white halo around her head. Her weapons. A reminder of the past. She is ingrained in them, finding herself in what they allow her to do, and the event from whence they came. Sometimes she catches herself, thinking she should be angry about the past, sad about the destruction of her kingdom - but there’s no going back, and there’s no use crying over spilt milk.

Only onward. Ever upward. Survival of the fittest.

Done drinking, her brawny body moves once again through the woods, mottled gray skin blending in with the dappled light, until it strikes the golden dragon crawling up her left leg. Powerful haunches propel her into the next adventure, with nary a glance behind her.



No Edge, please! - already got one there :)
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Messages In This Thread
I want more and more and more and more - by Wessex - 01-06-2017, 07:42 PM

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