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12-19-2016, 03:03 PM
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G L A S G O W
Glasgow hadn’t arrived during the giving tree last year – but oh did she hear about it. This year, she made it a note specifically to be around the Meadow in hopes of being able to attend. It had proven itself successful, and being near the Edge truly helped as well. As she made her way through the frozen grasses and snow covered bushes, she heard the gentle voice of others ringing from a place not far from her location. Immediately, she turned her course toward the sound, arriving on a small gathering with a large turtle and a few others already gathered. There was the blanketed mare that she had previously met in the Threshold. Nyx, the general that went off at the Edge meeting. And another man whom she didn’t recognize, lifting and placing a skull of some sort onto the tree. Her head tilted slightly, but she made her way toward the man’s side – curious if her glassy gaze wasn’t failing her as she looked at it. She stood, next, up to the tree, her scars lining her face glinted in the light as she turned her head toward the only item she carried that really meant something to her (not the little knotted string, of course, but something that meant more). It took a bit of wiggling, but she managed to grasp the piece of her broken horn that she kept braided in her tail, the little piece of string that kept it situated, and hung it on a branch as far as she could reach. Her glassy gaze watched the sharp horn as it dangled like a precarious icicle a bit below where Volterra had hung the head, and quietly she looked away from all those gathered to speak of what the simple broken horn meant to her. “A piece of my horn, broken off in battle, to remind me to never give up.” Short and sweet, to the point, and after her raspy voice had finished, her gaze landed on the pale glassy horn once again. "Talk." what a strange illusion it is, to suppose that beauty is goodness |
