the Rift


Ever Looming

Ayelet Posts: 51
Absent Abyss
Mare :: Unicorn :: 16 hh :: V
Lior :: Melanistic Barn Owl :: Curse dark
#4
But rising on up and then tumbling down


Ears swivel and turn, pivoting to the sound of a soft rustle from the left. Her light brings forth word of another, full moons watching intently as a humourous scene unfolds, eyes unblinking as the dark avian surveys the reddened mare with her white rump which protruded from a tree, body wedged. A frown trails across crystalline features, body shifting as she trods lightly to where it is the mare was located, guided by the gentle tugs of her Lior.

Happening upon the scene herself, she feels her heart sink beneath her hooves, melting beneath her glass columns into a puddle of deep crimson. A dark stallion with wings as large as her at his side, tremendously large in comparison to the rest of him. If he opened them he could remove the world of its light, deprive the moon from surveying her earthly followers. Curled ears flicker back as his voice rumbles deeply, resonating within her very being. Something about him made her upset, but she need not dote upon such unsettling feelings. She knew well enough why she felt such fear towards the man, he held great power with his muscled being and large wings.

Body shifts closer to the mare's hind, which had slumped to the ground. "Do no fret," her fragmented syllables will likely do little to comfort the trapped mare, eyes daring not to pear out at the malicious stallion and his feathered appendages. "I here, please breath." She murmurs softly, voice fading into the night just as shadows hid from light. Dipping her crystalline head she touches her cold glass muzzle to the side of the mare's alabaster speckled rump.

"The Edge has place for you and stay, scurra." She finds the name suitable, as the bloodied bay girl was indeed a clown, leaving amusement perking up in the monotone spirit of the glass childe. Her light brings himself from the trees, sweeping down like a shadow, bathing within the light of the moon. Dark beak gapes as a loud screech as he descends upon fragile, scratched withers. "talk talk talk"

-- scurra means clown/buffoon c; --


well it's part of the process
Credits: Whit's tables were an inspiration | Image| Original code by Tamme,


Messages In This Thread
Ever Looming - by Bea - 01-30-2015, 10:54 PM
RE: Ever Looming - by Bucephalus - 01-30-2015, 11:04 PM
RE: Ever Looming - by Bea - 01-30-2015, 11:29 PM
RE: Ever Looming - by Ayelet - 01-31-2015, 01:02 AM
RE: Ever Looming - by Bucephalus - 01-31-2015, 11:13 AM

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