lines by schwartze


Amber eyes notice him far before he notices her; she traces his tall, dun form warily, keenly, as if judging the size of a wolf's jaw as it slumbers. She is afraid to breathe, and the ivy plumes of exhalation pause, the remainder swirling about her face like a swarm of angry wasps. Life is not all silk-spiders, she knows, but also of the strange, the hopeless, the creatures of the night, and what am I? As his eyes finally regard her, cat-slitted and yellow-bright in the gentle radiance of the moon, she tilts her jaw upwards, almost defiantly, the diffused, soft light stroking the broad blaze of white on her face reverently. She is holy tonight.
When he finally speaks, his words are polite, as if regarding a lost puppy - and she supposes he is, for the filly is far from strong. No cobwebs, the girl thinks somberly with the tilt of a black-tipped ear. Blue-flecked eyes, large and luminous, regard him softly, as a goddess to her creation, although there is a savageness to them, a feral allusion, which unsettles the hardest of heart. He reminds her of a predator-cat, with soft words and a hunter's stare; she wonders when he will strike.

"Cobwebs," she responds mildly to his inquiry, the fickle voice swimming in the atmosphere like the breath of a feeble ghost. Silence clings to the icy cold air but for a moment; there is another presence in this glade, and the mooncast girl casts a black-tipped ear toward it until the noise grows far too strong to regard so indifferently. The pale-streaked face swings in its direction, a cautious ring of white contrasting the honey of her eye. The creature before them is strange and squat, with the same sulfurous stare as the dun, although his pupils are not as unsettling as the former. She regards it with a mixture of curiosity and vigilance, perhaps a little bit of caution as well. It is still for the longest time, infinitely wide cat-eyes gazing at them as if in a trance. What he is thinking? Her mother never told stories of short pink unicorns with eyes like forever, so the filly supposed she would tell her own story of a queer purple stallion, who stands and stands and stands for days until he lets a few words slip past his grinning lips.

Attentively, dark ears face forward as if catching every uncanny word like the rarest of insects. "Cobwebs," she whispers to him, answering his question with the awe of one whose mind has been read. Would this odd little stallion know of her quest?
And the moon, dutiful as ever, sent her silver spiders reeling down threads of sterling light, filtering through the dark leaves like long-forgotten myths.


[Chester, could you modify the colours of your text, please? I can't really read it :D]