12-26-2012, 05:53 PM
(This post was last modified: 01-08-2013, 04:40 PM by Blu.)
WILLOW & ERMINE
.arborun lignea .. .mare. ..23 years. .. .16.3 hands.
She moves with a slow and casual pace, muzzle brushing the tops of the grasses that sway at her knees. They tickle her nose from time to time and she wrinkles it playful, snorting against the wheat and the weeds; the wind spreads their spores like down.
Each hulking stride she manages causes a slight tremble to weave into the tops of the tree upon her back. A willow; it's branches are long and leaves swaying as they reach down towards the ground. They are a vibrant green, many of them new with the coming of spring, though some sections are bare where the cold has nipped them back to bark.
It is the reason for her absence truly. Willow has never known such cold as in this end of Loorien. It does not bode well for her foliage that prefers the spring showers and summer sun. In the endless, pale dawn of frostfall she had begun to die as her willow withered. Even now, rejuvenated with the coming of birdsong, there is a light rasp to her breathing and a labor to her step as her strength is yet to unfurl entirely like all the leaves upon her back.
She has returned though, with the changing of the seasons has drug herself from her hole in the deep recesses of the waterfall where she'd mostly slumbered. The winds had been slow to warm down there and she roused herself like a cautious cub from its mother's den.
The air was clean and fresh and held promises of change, but she knew not what change it was an ode to. Aimlessly she wandered the lands, hoping to run across someone with answers, happy to drink the sunshine while she searched. Perhaps Poppy or Query would be about. She hoped her absence had not direly alarmed them. It had been a sudden and private affair as she'd buried herself to preserve her life. She shuddered at the memory and made a note to be more prepared for the next snows, as they would come again.
The world is ever turning and the seasons rise and fall with the sun and the moon.
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| Up For Adoption |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 16.1 :: 3 Years Buff: NOVICE |
| Semper |
 Cyrus
colors never faded, reckless and unabated - may take me but never take us all
Cyrus was a creature that drank in sunlight with his eyes. The sunlight was a vital ingredient to him in his entirety. The sun bleached his pale hair, twisted his views on the cold, shielded him from the dark, and kept him away from the family he knew he loved. Even if the arid radiation sucked the moisture from his eyes, he didn't mind the sting. Devotion was a sign of purity in his soul. Perhaps the only purity in his soul.
Acceptance from the God of the Sun was worth much more than family or any piety he could conceive.
The Windtossed Foothills was not the ideal venue for spending hours in the beam of the sun. Cyrus preferred the paradisaical view from the cloud-submerged hilltop of the Heavenly Fields where he could feel genuinely acquainted with the ball of prerequisite light. The boy claimed it was a part of his core, beating there like an essential artery. It fueled the muse for his brain, the inspiration for the paths ahead to choose. Without it, Cyrus' insecurities would devour him from the inside out, as he believed sunlight to first travel to the soul and then scatter throughout the rest of his body. Even if the young stallion disliked the center spot where you could best see the sunshine in the Foothills, he enjoyed the warmth he received there atop that hill during the brisk Birdsong days.
The flaxen boy paced every few minutes, pale tail twitching, lost in thoughts falling to place in the more uncertain side of his brain. He thought mostly about his horned father, who apparently impregnated the boy's too-caught-up-in-love mother to birth another batch of despondent twins. Cyrus was not able to bring a regarding word to his parents before they left, toddling the deformity that walked in their caution. A new goal of his was to beat the around bushes for the sibling that was left behind. He wondered for a minute about how it felt living deserted, watching the snow fall in the faint tracks of the parents that left her behind for a much weaker child. To Cyrus, this child would live a life of skewed mortality, a desire to be loved, but not too much love. A fear of love. And a fear of love meant an unconcern for evil.
Before long, the young stallion's ineffective paces ran into powerful strides and before he knew he was running out fury. His nostrils stretched wide as his gallop consumed the big hills, his legs a fuzzily racing slur, the wind crying into his mane. He was a raging warhound at best and his face etched the confusion of desperate release from the prodding thoughts. But his mind kept sending an overflow of discomfort, he was lost in his thoughts like a child in the dead end of a maze. And he just kept running. It could have been circles, it could have been zig-zags but it was not a straight line. His legs bounced with speed and his heart throbbed with tire until he felt himself lose control. His young hooves became weak as fluid.
And it stopped.
He stopped. He was there beneath the shade of a lone tree when he stopped, breathing like a asphyxiated dog. He knew just then and there that he kicked himself, and oh, did he deserve it.
He drew in the deepest of breaths while flicking his electric eyes. It took him a brief moment to consider that what he was standing under was not only a tree, but a horse! 'A HorseTree,' his mind panted, completely withdrawn from normality. The boy receded a few steps, alarmed at the oddly enormous tree-creature, he couldn't help but exhale with a loud snort that almost felt like a laugh. This was no laughing matter. This was a TreeHorse.
He chuckled.
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WILLOW & ERMINE
.arborun lignea .. .mare. ..23 years. .. .16.3 hands.
The sound of thunder over the plains goes unheard by the sunbathing aurborun. Truth be told thunder is rather quiet when it's only a small, single cloud trying to raze the skies. Cyrus' feet certainly hum as they strike the ground, but he is only a boy in flight, not an army marching to war - his rage is a quiet ordeal.
Yet the heavy breathing is soon enough heard. How could she not when he's practically panting into her ear. Her head turns quickly from its tucked position by her opposing shoulder. Willow flicks her ears uncertainly when she sets her gaze upon the creamy stud. His hide is dark with the sweat of his exertion, but Willow is more interested in learning if it's also exhaustion, she might be able to escape him then if things turn ugly and he's left winded.
The two stare for a moment, suspended in the silence of the estranged meeting, each on the tips of their toes with uncertainty. Then he laughs. The sounds floats merrily enough and Willow finds herself exhaling a held breath she had never meant to imprison. Abruptly then Ermine comes galloping down her trunk, chattering fiercely as he goes. His tail, still faintly colored white in some patches, stands erect while his hackles earn new heights. His teeth flash as he leaps, grabbing a strand of the tree's lengthy leaves. His momentum carries him in an arc and as he soars for the brief moment he writhes and hisses at Cyrus before he's wheeled back to the tree trunk. There he remains on edge, beady eyes glaring at the stranger that would dare laugh at his home and friend.
Willow, though at first dismayed, cannot help but be left gasping for air amid her own laughter at the comical display of bravery and acrobatics by her most un-ferocious companion. Steadily she got herself back into composure long enough to chastise the little ermine. "Now now, leave vine-swinging to the monkeys Ermine, better laughter than spite," she murmured, softening as she scolded him. Whether or not he heard her remained to be seen as he continued to glower at Cyrus.
Green eyes shift, framed by the chocolate head and detailed swirlings of vines against her cheeks. "Forgive us," Willow says in way of greeting, "We have forgotten our manners over frostfall, it would seem. Being alone tends to make your courtesies rusty." She offers him a gentle smile in the hopes of softening the souring actions. "I am Willow, and that is Ermine."
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| Up For Adoption |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 16.1 :: 3 Years Buff: NOVICE |
| Semper |
Cyrus
colors never faded, reckless and unabated - may take me but never take us all
As he finds himself in a cackle soggy with ignorance, the tree suddenly begins to chime in branches, leaves, and all shaking upon the upheaval of Willow. She has one of those soft, deep chuckles that only a grandparent could own and as it finds itself out of control the young stallion narrows his teal eyes, shifting them awkwardly lowering his own laughter all at once. His breaths carry out the last two puffs of giggle before he's a little weirded out, electric eyes shifting to the ground quickly. He couldn't resolve to thinking anything else but, 'that tree just laughed.' The boy wanted to respect her for her own race down inside, but the peculiarity of the situation ate down the mature courage that stood with boy for the few seconds in. It leaves him staring there, broody hormones instantly melting into inelegant fear. His heart leaps, his mind stutters, he feels a bit woozy and he is sure it isn't from the calamity of his run.
And the horse tree, speaks. Cyrus feels each syllable as a tremor down his ruby spine. Her voice is rough and woodsy like the bark climbing out of her withers, and it was then in all of this that he noticed the companion weasel chirping and cackling as the mare herself. She spoke to it lightheartedly, and the boy became a little more aware of himself. He pushes up from his chest to appear larger compared to the enormous tree-animal, and lifts his tilted face, erasing the confusion from it. Cyrus looks right into the fluid emerald eyes she has and declares her normal. As close as he can manage to normal.
Then Willow speaks to him, voice a noble concern, sounding like the yawn of a new sapling emerging from the floor of spring. Her name modified her tree name. 'Willow,' he thinks, rolling the name over his mental tongue. "Willow fits you, perfectly," he says with a light smile. "Also, forgive me as well, running up on you like that was rude." 'So was laughing at her,' his conscience blared.
Cyrus knew he was a dramatic colt. He took things of the world and made them into immature scenes that he would indeed regret.
He calmed now, feeling the anxiety slip from him and his mind start to churning like normal. All trace of his parents and the unfound child fell away as the Lignea distracted him completely from the mindset that sent him away to running. He thinks he likes her, finding some sort of refuge in her shady green eyes. A curious thought soon prodded inside him as he thought over her kind words. Of course he thought of the connection between the Sun God and her leaves. He wonders if it is the Sun himself that provides her food. "Willow, I hope you don't find it rude to ask, but do you happen to feed like a plant? Like, feeding from the sun?" It was the only thing the boy could possibly think. His own mind consumes him when any aspect of the gleaming life comes into his mind.
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WILLOW & ERMINE
.arborun lignea .. .mare. ..23 years. .. .16.3 hands.
It is with relief that Willow soon finds the boy is not one to be offended easily. Too often has she encountered those with skin so thin it's a wonder one fly bite doesn't leave them dead. Perhaps she's at a disadvantage of understanding those sorts though, having something more akin to bark rather than flesh for a hide, even if only figuratively in some areas.
His eyes never seem to stop opening wide with his disbelief and for a moment Willow's afraid he might faint. It wouldn't be the first time, but it didn't make the event any less embarrassing. He finds his voice in the least, her worry quickly shifting to humor once more at his words. "All of my kind are named Willow," she responds, the mirth evident in the way her syllables tilted high. It's difficult not to laugh when everyone thinks such strange things on what has always been normal to you.
"What were you running for?" she asks curiously, the query waiving away his unnecessary apology. "Training?" she guesses, assuming that he like most other fit colts strives for the warrior's path. She wondered if she had been born a colt if she would have felt differently about war.
For a moment they seem to regard each other, both blinking in the yawn of silence, green resting on blue, chocolate shifting besides wheat. His question comes then with no suddenness. She could almost see it forming behind his eyes as he grappled with the existence of her being. It's a strange sensation to have the probability of your life eternally evaluated. What he asks takes her by surprise however, for it is not one of the common ones. Most wonder about pain, movement, or for the more crass, sexual positions.
She nods her head in response even as she begins to respond in detail. "There is no rudeness in curiosity," she responds evenly, naturally falling into a teacher's tone. It's difficult not to when horses who think themselves mature are almost always still younger than she. "And yes, I do. I am called a Lignea, and for every plant you see around you, there is a horse like me connected to it. It would be a cruel fate if we had to eat the grass knowing our brothers suffered." She smiled wanly, aware of how this news might be disturbing or even, unbelievable. It would not be the first time she had been called a freakish liar and driven away for making fellows grow sick at their every meal. "Luckily for that type of Lignea, their grass covers a great deal of area and they face no threat of perish except with unkind weather or over-grazing," she adds hurriedly, not wishing to add the weight of murder on anyone's shoulders.
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