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It had been a long time since she had seen the ocean. There was something mighty and fierce about how the water seemed to stretch on past the horizon forever, crashing waves roiling and rolling and ruling the sandy beaches, commanding attention. It was wild and untamable, limitless in its power, unstoppable as to how far it could reach if nature so wished. The cobalt colored mare traversed the sandy shores quietly, her steps trailing through the frothy surf in a contemplative and thoughtful determination, slow and cautious. The mare’s golden eyes peer about her surroundings from beneath the veil of twisted, tangled black locks, her appearance as wild and imposing and elegant as the ocean churning before her.
A moment of restlessness had sent Larkspur wandering through Helovia, away from the Basin and her brethren there. Call it a scouting expedition if you will, still being relatively new to the area she had taken the opportunity to learn the lay of the land a little better, each footstep becoming a piece of the map she slowly constructed and built in her memory. Shuler, a peculiarly polite and cordial stallion of Psyche’s lot, had directed her south in suggestion- and here she was.
The dark mare eased to a stop, leonine tail flicking long tendrils of ocean-damp hair across hocks and gaskins. A noise sounds in the distance, thrumming hooves jogging across the damp sand, the unicorn swings her head in the direction of the din, ears swiveled forward in ambiguous curiosity, eyes narrowed. The slow descent of the sun casts oranges and brilliant, bright reds against the backdrop of the sky, and Larkspur stands stark and shadowed against the ivory white purity of the sand, a composition of muscles coiled beneath a cerulean cover, strong legs flexing idly as they shift from side to side, eyes narrowed in intense study. She is a mark against the otherwise perfect complexion of the beach.
The mare comes into view shortly, a small, stout creature painted in stains of sandy reds and creamy white. Larkspur watches carefully from where she has stopped; a large, obtrusive and hardly unnoticeable object on the beach. It would be impossible to avoid being noticed. She observes the mare from a distance, sizing her up in the time she has before they must acknowledge one another. While Larkspur carries a black and white brindled horn upon her brow, a weapon of deadly brutality, there is no such object bestowed to this stranger. Her forehead is bare and lacking.
The deep, ingrained sense of distaste for lesser species that can be traced back to the furthest reaches of Larkspur’s ancestry can be seen in the darkening of her eyes, the change of her stance and the way her ears lay flat against her head, as if a snake had slithered across her path. Her head is raised slightly, challenging, daring the stranger to speak if she were brave enough.
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