born rottin'

bored rotten

Honestly, what even was this place? Chrsyocolla plodded - yes, plodded would be the correct word as she was tired and fairly sick of this random movement - through the trees, pale green eyes looking dubiously about herself. It seemed like a trap, which could mean a break in boredom, or it could just be trees. A forest, maybe, though she couldn't see the forest through these trees - ha. She was hilarious, but anyone could tell you that. Not that she knew anyone anymore, so they'd just have to trust her word on it. If they didn't...

No, she probably wouldn't do anything to people who didn't lie to her. Honestly, Chrys didn't enjoy getting herself dirty. Being dirty showed an honesty that Chrys wasn't quite comfortable with - one could see all the mess, the pain, the disgust that made up a person. She preferred to be clean, well-groomed and without blemish or blame that any could see. Except, perhaps, for the knots and tangles the ground put in her tail, but really - she didn't want to lose it, did she? Of course not! As a foal, sob story that it is, she was taught that good girls kept their tails short, that long meant they were putting too much thought and care into their beauty and it was a sign of vanity, vanity, vanity. Well, she was a little bit vain, but she'd never admit that.

But here she was, in this place, tired and annoyed but with a pleasant smile on her face, even as she plodded. Best to look the part of lost, penitent pilgrim. After all - why not?


ooc ;; ew i hate first posts with new people bah

when i say nothing, i say everything

It’s good to be bad if it’s better than bored, right? This is probably why she has chosen to fight, to have an actual excuse to start a spar and beat the crap our of someone or, more likely, get the crap beat out of her. It was a productive and fun way to channel what would otherwise only be a troublesome and constant boredom. When she wasn’t fighting or training, she was content. Her muscle were tired and her legs heavy and getting herelf into too much trouble just really wasn’t worth it at that point. Sometimes, anyway. There were other types of trouble to get into, of course. Those types of trouble stemmed from long nights in the hot springs with pretty boys or sleepless nights scouring the greenhouse for the recreations herbs.

Sometimes she is more productive, like today, taking herself to the Threshold. It’s sometimes nice to get out of the overly chilly Basin, though she finds she doesn’t mind the temperature in the north as much as she might expect. The cape from Vertigo probably helps, and she wears it now, the tail end of it hanging off her right side and just barely missing the ground. Vertigo had done a good job with the length of the thing, though Raven still caws at her in dismay and flaps about, trying to tug the cape back over her as she walks.

She finally stops outside the Threshold’s forest long enough to let him fix the cape so it drapes nicely over her back, and then he settles himself down into the middle of her back and begins pulling the cape around him like a nest. That makes more sense, because he’s never been so selfish as to just clean her up. Weaver is always presentable, but in a purposefully messy sort of way. Her mane and tail are long and wild, though not really tangled or dirty. She carries herself like she’s lived here forever, not less than a year, and she moves with with ease through the forest.

It’s rare she’s disappointed when she comes to the Threshold. Not to say she takes home every potential recruit she finds, but rather, she usually at least finds someone to talk to. Today will not disappoint her either. A while-faced, brown-bodied mare who looks reasonably pleasant (not that pleasant is a requirement for Weaver). “Hello,” she calls, closing the distance between them. Raven caws from his nest on her back, his own hello, before going back to being relatively uninterested in the happenings of horses.

Another beats her to the punch though and joins them, diving straight into some spiel. Weaver’s direct and all, but damn, that’s pretty quick to the punch. The mare doesn’t state where she’s from or what she’s doing in the Threshold, though after a moment, Weaver recognizes her from their short encounter in the Basin. “The Mountain that Knows, long time no see,” she says casually, as if Isopia hadn’t just information dumped on the girl in the Threshold. She turns her attention to the new mare then, adding, “I’m Weaver, from the Aurora Basin, which is one of those three herds,” but she leaves it at that for now, because it’s more than enough for a casual hello. Her attention drifts back to Isopia, though she keeps the other mare in the conversation as well. “My magic stayed with me when I came.” It’s partially a question, but mostly just an observation.