the Rift


what wound did ever heal but by degrees, for willow

Jackal2 the King of Thieves Posts: 71
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Stallion :: Equine :: 15.3 ½ :: 3 years
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#1


( timeline wise, this is on the same day of the meeting :] )

The sun begins to die, its faltering rays giving way to night, spreading golden grace onto darkening grasses.

He sighs.

What good is a crown without its thorns; how easy it would be to claim superiority over others with a golden circlet, light on the brow and pretty on the eyes? How easy would it be to escape from its weight without daggers digging into your skin, meshing into your brain? The only crown he knows will hold steady is a crown of thorns, and the only promise he knows will stay true is a promise wrought of blood.

Apprehension comes second nature, even before mistrust and anger - the world wants to see itself from behind a film of blood, and swiftly discounts any good for a sly or deceptive nature. It is so easy to become lulled by cycles, ever turning like the cogs of a great machine, to follow the herd like meek sheep, afraid to trod on any ground that has not been compacted and ruined by the hooves of your predecessors.

The world is cast in a purple hue, and his eyes swirl like an aurora borealis in itself. Sinking, the sun stains his dusty coat with bloody light, the tips of his sunburned mane glittering gold. Today has been clear, no wisp of cloud interfering with the sky's brilliant blue vault; a far cry from the night before, when rain battered the Foothills into brutal submission. The grass is not the only one who bowed, the dun muses, thinking to the giant he had felled a mere day ago, his left leg throbbing softly with recollection. It was still ginger, but Willow's menthol-smelling lilypad poultice had eased it considerably. He smiles at the thought of her: for someone who's half tree, she is awfully graceful. Willow - what a fitting name; gentle, serene, wise, like the tree perched proudly on her back. She is tall, almost as tall as Goliath, but they are as different as dawn and dusk. Where he is clumsy and angry, she is gentle and as fluid as wind or water. How lucky he is to have such a healer, and even if he does not know much about the willow-mare, he knows she will serve him well.



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what wound did ever heal but by degrees, for willow - by Jackal2 - 01-16-2013, 04:35 PM

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