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09-25-2015, 09:07 AM
Heart and mind set upon the hundred waterfalls, their glittering rushing torrent in the hundreds as they feed into the lakes and ponds and water-ways from which the myriad of lush life sprang, it was time for Imonada to head home. Home; not unfamiliar with the concept, having been sheltered by serene meadows and their evergreen palisades in her youth, but ascribing the Hidden Falls the denomination was strange fruit, its taste not unpleasant, but certainly of the acquiring nature. In her vast delirium, she had wandered too far south from the herdland, then guided out by a wisp of a zephyr into the thistle-clotted meadows.
Now? The roiling oceans of sun-faced poppy, masked pansies, bursting star lily, golden-crowned reedgrass, stalks of bluestem, and sundry; they're edged out gradually as she begins to approach great foothills dusted with snow, pine ringing their bases. Dwarfed by these white-capped mammoths, where far in the distance of a lifetime even more monstrous mountains like sleeping giants loom along the horizon forbidden and untouchable, Imonada is but a black speck on a trail that disappears beneath the frosted carpet. The sun just peeks over the tops of the sierra cedar, turning the snow into a silvery cold fire.
You're going the wrong way, shitbird.
Silence!
But it's right, that tingly transgression in the abysm that is her soul. Pausing, unnerved, nearly up to her knees now in the ivory powder that turns the view pristine and aloof, the comparative warmth of the spring season slushing it ever so slightly so each step feels mired, Imonada clears her senses and sharply hones them to hunt for her. Long, velvety ears prick forward and strain when they catch a faint giggle.
Silence!
But it's right, that tingly transgression in the abysm that is her soul. Pausing, unnerved, nearly up to her knees now in the ivory powder that turns the view pristine and aloof, the comparative warmth of the spring season slushing it ever so slightly so each step feels mired, Imonada clears her senses and sharply hones them to hunt for her. Long, velvety ears prick forward and strain when they catch a faint giggle.
It takes her some more trudging to catch up to the laughter; Kipling becomes revealed to her in time, playing in the snow like a foal experiencing its first Frostfall. She is quick to note his coloring, a mottled cream russet juxtaposed against the the pearly world frame; his spectacularly long and spiraled horn a golden lantern in the crystal light of the morning. Although lanky, he is massive compared to her; the little silkshadow mare refrains from calling his attention, preferring to suss out a bit more information on him before making contact. Her useless left wing is unconsciously allowed to droop awkwardly as she takes a rest from holding it against her side, but other than the occasional breeze playing with threads of her lavish ink hair, she is motionless and stalwart.
@Kipling
elizabeth: you're not telling us everything.
red: let me put your mind at ease; i'm never telling you everything.
--blacklist
force allowed
plotting prior to death/maiming please
![[Image: a0jmns.png]](http://i68.tinypic.com/a0jmns.png)
line art by jennyleigh
red: let me put your mind at ease; i'm never telling you everything.
--blacklist
force allowed
plotting prior to death/maiming please
line art by jennyleigh
