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I AM IRON AND I FORGE MYSELF
Wessex has never had someone scrutinize her gait before. She probably walks everywhere in a soldierly manner (except when she’s feeling particularly awkward and/or flustered about a pretty face) - and it happens to come out extra soldiery when she’s officially on a patrol. Double extra soldiery with the addition of a fresh batch of scars trailing down the left side of her withers; they were no longer open wounds that exposed pink flesh to the air, but dark, scabbed-over lines which slice through her light and dark coat like a knife. Courtesy of a bear.
Wessex! floats across the fields to her on airy, feminine tones. It sounds vaguely familiar, tapping gently at her memories until her horned head turns around to see who greeted her with such gaiety. To her delight (and complete surprise), she sees the long-legged beauty from Single’s Night high-stepping across the field to her. A wide smiles stretches, unbidden, across her face, and she greets the Edge Mare by name as well. “Manon!” A loud whicker follows her hail as she moves to meet the sunlit beauty half-way. Perhaps it is the gentle rays of daylight that make her seem far more angelic now than she did before; more sophisticated girl-next-door than fiercely unattainable ethereal being.
“I’d say so,” replies Wessex, as her thick whip of a tail lazes back and forth. Lizard eyes settle on the little details of Manon’s appearance - the blue of her eyes and the twist of her hair - good god, how does she manage to her mane to do that? Maybe one day she’ll ask, but for now, “You look different in the daylight - I like it. What brings you up here?”
Good job, Wessex. Much more smooth this time around.
W E S S E X
@Manon
so sorry this took awhile :/
-- magic and force allowed, no death or permanent damage --
