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standing on my broken throne
crying out for what was done
crying out for what was done
Life had suddenly become so much more interesting, and in so short a time. Did she enjoy it? That was yet to be seen as the filly limped pitifully back to the meadows. These fields likened to heaven were becoming a frequent bolt-hole for her to disappear to, even if the occasional passerby were to disturb the peace; none had yet to disturb her.
A burbling creek served as refuge for tired and weary hooves, but even more so for a heavy heart. The soft rush of cold water over smooth stone was mesmerizing, allowing the patchwork child to drop her lids and step into its path. The chill against a slowly ripening sunrise felt amazing, quelling the ripples of distress that rode down her spine. Soon she would have labored beneath a hot sun and as many might agree, she despised the heat. The cool shade of a tree or dark shadow of a cave was her preferred residence, but seeing as the fields lacked these things… she blinked long and slow, pale white eyes gazing down into the ever-moving stream. This would have to do.
Much had been learned at the meeting they had just left, mother and she. Although most of it was far beyond her level of understanding, it did not see fit to leave her untouched by the dour emotions that permeated its core. No animal present had been happy, all of them frowning or worse, angry. Of course her focus had been more so on the colt, Virga, Virga. Such a wily creature, no older than herself, but seemingly far more advanced. Then again most of the horses she came in contact with seemed beyond her grasp in every area: speech, thinking, ideas, even play. Perhaps Virga had been the straw to break the proverbial camels back, a phrase her mother had used once, and something Sheba felt she better understood. The disappointment was palpable, a shimmering aura of reality that had nothing better to do than serve as a constant weight on her mind. Or maybe that was just the sun coming up, setting the dark hairs of her back afire.
Suddenly there he was, or so she assumed it was a he. The colt came tumbling into the scene followed by the strangest creature, large but not overly huge, beautiful really. It lumbered after its charge who came closer and closer, so close in fact that Bathsheba was forced to move. She swung her hips around and suffered, pain launching pin-needles through the bones of her hindquarters. It was a cruel reminder of why she rarely partook of such… “frolicking.” For it was the only word she felt could describe just how happy this boy looked. A roan coat fit him snugly, four jaunty legs wore tall white socks while his eyes were a dark brown – or so she hoped. “What is that?” She asked, maybe it would prevent him from stumbling into her space.
@Murtagh
A burbling creek served as refuge for tired and weary hooves, but even more so for a heavy heart. The soft rush of cold water over smooth stone was mesmerizing, allowing the patchwork child to drop her lids and step into its path. The chill against a slowly ripening sunrise felt amazing, quelling the ripples of distress that rode down her spine. Soon she would have labored beneath a hot sun and as many might agree, she despised the heat. The cool shade of a tree or dark shadow of a cave was her preferred residence, but seeing as the fields lacked these things… she blinked long and slow, pale white eyes gazing down into the ever-moving stream. This would have to do.
Much had been learned at the meeting they had just left, mother and she. Although most of it was far beyond her level of understanding, it did not see fit to leave her untouched by the dour emotions that permeated its core. No animal present had been happy, all of them frowning or worse, angry. Of course her focus had been more so on the colt, Virga, Virga. Such a wily creature, no older than herself, but seemingly far more advanced. Then again most of the horses she came in contact with seemed beyond her grasp in every area: speech, thinking, ideas, even play. Perhaps Virga had been the straw to break the proverbial camels back, a phrase her mother had used once, and something Sheba felt she better understood. The disappointment was palpable, a shimmering aura of reality that had nothing better to do than serve as a constant weight on her mind. Or maybe that was just the sun coming up, setting the dark hairs of her back afire.
Suddenly there he was, or so she assumed it was a he. The colt came tumbling into the scene followed by the strangest creature, large but not overly huge, beautiful really. It lumbered after its charge who came closer and closer, so close in fact that Bathsheba was forced to move. She swung her hips around and suffered, pain launching pin-needles through the bones of her hindquarters. It was a cruel reminder of why she rarely partook of such… “frolicking.” For it was the only word she felt could describe just how happy this boy looked. A roan coat fit him snugly, four jaunty legs wore tall white socks while his eyes were a dark brown – or so she hoped. “What is that?” She asked, maybe it would prevent him from stumbling into her space.
@Murtagh
