The forest has a whisper like demons. The little filly feels wind hiss from the spidery legs of uprooted trees and it makes an indefinite chill linger in her bones. Upon her first visit here, she wasn't quite so timid, but the eerie wonders of the slumbering grove eventually etched some lines of haunt in her brain. Aswane loves this uncanny feel, though it causes her chakras to come unbalanced. She loves the way the forest can manipulate the soul and the mind. It surrounds her like an accumulation of bark-covered authoritarians, all hissing deceitfully, screaming whispers directly in to the narrow pass of her erect ears. It's such a strange world that she lives in, surrounded by enmity, avarice, and carnage - in places like this there are only lonely threats that are merely an upset by Loorien. She understands why it wants to take back.
In fact, it should take back. Aswane experiences the hurt of the earth, the trees wallow and the flowers wilt. She can't be sure why, but all she knows is that it hurts, deeply. Somewhere within her spirit she is wilted and withered like the grasstips of Tallsun. Her family wilts her trifling heart. Her family is gone.
Save for one.
One insufficient boy by the name of Cyrus.
Aswane remembers Aylin speaking of Cyrus. He was the child of the sun, simply infatuated with its sparking, iridescent rays. The moonchild said he'd spend hours upon hours basking in that sunny rampage, completely engrossed by the sun's spell. He dreamed of one day the God of the sun would come down and adorn him with his presence. He was the polar opposite of Aylin, worshiping the sun and boldness, while she stayed reserved in the quiet light of the moon. Aswane was the separate middle. Her individuality danced in the seismic waves of the earth, spanned in the thoughtful loom of the trees, and walked in the heart of brush. Little did she know, her parents would be proud of her.
They didn't leave her because they didn't love her. They just made her feel like that's what they intended.
Aswane declares herself to young to love anything other than Loorien, and moves on in thought, approaching the outer skirts of the Deep Forest. The trees thin, but not by much. She remembers approaching the large mass of dark trees, cluttered like an army of tightly packed cigarettes, the trunks stretched out long and thin while the branches and leaves looked like plumes of smoke grazing the clouds. The ground dips slightly under her footfalls with the damp decay of leaves and other means of recycle. This is why she loves her forest, but not enough to stay.
Something pale flickers in the off focus of the lowly hanging limbs. Her one good, green eye captures it and locks on. She halts abruptly, and lowers her head, feeling the surge of trepidation shock her white-dipped legs. Finally the white creature speaks and she feels at ease by the sound of his voice, gruff and dominating, but somewhere in that masculinity is an unspoken friendliness that tumbles out in greeting. Aswane is immediately intrigued, squinting her eyes, even the one frosted with blue blindness to better see the white horse. She spots the great blue horse second, standing across from the white fellow. He has three, oddly placed horns protruding from the midsection of his neck while his kin wears the same costume, black horns jut from over his eyes and one turns downward, while the other faces the motley sunlight above. Aswane has nothing to share with them, but some deep force in the forest drives her outward, through the broken bracken and over to them with a shy step and undignified grace.
She immediately favors with the white male first, had she not noticed his pallid allure, she would still be consumed in the menace of the Deep Forest's many hazards. "I'm not one of your family, Sir," she begins with a tremble in her voice. "but I could help you find them if you want." Aswane stands with her ears still erect, facing the white figurine with a genuine expression. She would like to help if she could.
She's never been in a situation like this.
aswane
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