The gorgon moved, red eyes daunting yet dancing in the sun light, far from beautiful as she was. She was a monster, in ancient history of earth is was legend that the very creature she was named for had hair of snakes and a stare that could turn one to stone. She did not have these things, but perhaps at a first glance, one would lock eyes with the gorgon and freeze into a moment on time in which their muscles much like stone could not move. A beast, a monster, and in that moment of trying to decipher what eyes you were gazing into a lost soul, or a monster she would make the split decision to act on initial impulse and destroy all that had potential to harm her, or follow social protocol which she was much lacking and engage accordingly. An orphan life was all but desired. Solitude in her development from filly to mare had left her with an almost terminal lack of sociability; in fact it was odd to even find her here in a potential threshold not only by name but in her life where many would find a home, and some spark of a hopefully echoed softly in the belly of the beast for some semblance of acceptance and invitation into the home of another.

Strange, yes very strange, the butterfly jitters in her stomach echoing softly to her brain in an uncomfortable unknown feeling that she was not used to. It would be true to say she was beginning to despise the feeling. That feeling she got seconds after hearing her mother screech in pain and terror yet those butterflies burned to close to light and died that night when her mother never returned. If one would ask she would say she couldn’t even remember her name. That was not true but so deeply it was locked away with the depressing emotions that almost killed the youthful banshee. Depression can be quite the murdering mistress but in the case of Medusa it became much more than just that, it became a mother of its own, or maybe a twisted transistor that went form a deep darkness on one side of the scale to the other twisting and spiraling into anger and amorphous antagonism.

Shapeless, not what you would expect you would expect the antagonist of this story to be the decayed stone cracked marbled mare but there was more to her than just hate. So silent a aching heart so cold and distant from and from of flame or light in which it could be reborn from the ruin it was left in. She would remain this way indefinitely simple cold and calculating doing what pleased her when it pleased her, never learning any consequence of what could happen. Death would be a welcomed challenge; anything would be a welcomed challenge to the mare. Hooves steppes on debris from what had fallen form trees in seasons past now mixing and churning with the dirt floor of the forest with every keratin plated hoof that stepped on them, she was one of many who had made this journey. Hooves a tint of green on black that supported the Stonehenge monolith on thick white legs her smooth coat glistening in rays of heated sun light that managed to pass through slits of the canopy tapestry above radiated the air in warmth. She inhaled, oxygen flooding though the panels of her blood like gasoline in the fuel injector of a car, it kept her alive, and it kept her going, further into the threshold.

A small smirk places itself of over the mottled skin of the witch’s mouth , unlike most velveteen kissers it was ornamented in pink and grey as was most of her skin under the white petticoat that had been ruined by the natural stone decay markings she had been born with. As if rock had been chipped and covered on her own pelt of fur. Spanish blood encouraged her natural movement as she gated through the wood stalks of trees.



NOW ENTER INTO HELOVIA,


THE GORGON, MEDUSA.


Ooc, open for anyone, any herd,