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Sunlight streamed through the thinly clad trees of the forest, the toll of Orangemoon certainly taking hold upon the flora of the area. Yet the air was surprisingly warm for this time of year, the wind balmy against my naked neck and oddly spiced—a freak accident. The birds weren’t around to enjoy it, having flown south with an internal, primordial design to find the hottest, dependable days; the creatures of fur and meat were undoubtedly huddled up in some cave, fat and healthy, brooding over the coming winter months. Had I a cave to dwell within, I would’ve joined their ranks and slept away the bitter cold. One could only wish.
Fear is a different poison upon reflection; regret is a different beast with age. I knew not which one was wreaking its havoc upon the marrow of my bones, the crooked joint of my horn—but it was working rather valiantly. The invigorating wind did nothing to bite through the chill of my soul, my heart. Time did not move for me—rather my wounds festered, skin rotted away to reveal the puckered, infected flesh underneath. With every step forward I rubbed this laceration raw—some masochist part of my inner nature may have enjoyed this self-inflicted torture, and had I not been nauseous with the aforementioned poison I probably would have focused on that morbid observation with greater detail.
I do not hide the fact of my flight, for fled I did. Was I a coward for running away from the honor of my dear mother and the strength and dignity of my awesome brothers under the mere selfish, instinctual avoidance of death? Or was I a hero for defying the monster that lived within Mandrake—I do not deny that something within her mutated into a monster somewhere within her twisted wiles—and aiming to eke a living away from such insane nonsense, an honest man living amongst honest fellows, possibly taking an honest mate and having honest affairs? Whatever the grand scheme working itself into my head was irrelevant, because the outcome was the same regardless. For life away from my demented family was not a life; it held no color for me, no variety, no passion or drive. I was a fish washed up upon the beach, thinking I could fly on wings that weren’t there—I was nothing without Mandrake and my brothers. It was a useless endeavor to escape from their influence.
Perhaps the bastard mother had designed that kind of forthcoming from the start?
So here I was on this freak of a warm day, treading through the threshold of some forgotten island from which the murmurings of legends carried upon the wind. Legends of my brothers; notoriety of Mandrake. The trail of blood they left was vivid red upon the cobblestone path, and it was no problem of mine to follow it.
It was time to face my fate. I did not seek redemption, forgiveness, the antidote or any other sort of heroic endeavor. I only wanted life—for running away from death is the adverse of any intent of a living creature. We drive to it headlong, adrenaline pumping, believing ourselves to be invincible. Then we grow old and wary of our time to leave, imparting wisdom into the younger generation. And death comes to us, and we leave with them, old friends who happened to miss each other for the past decades.
That, or I would be met with a gruesome, drawn out, torture-filled end. Come what may. I welcomed an end.
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| Windtossed Foothills Warrior |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 15.3 hh :: 41 months |
| Adoptable |
Lev Fence</style>♥Healed by Hana's drought, Fence found himself invigorated at the sight and sound of everything. For the first time in weeks, he ran, swiftly and truly. The same warm and heavy wind that struck the neck of Emerson flew through Fence's poorly managed mane. He noticed today, for the first time in so long, what a mess it was. As he recovered, superficial aspects of life glittered and sparked before him, igniting old and passionate fires that the shadows had so long ago extinguished.
But still, he sometimes felt that hollow sense of dread. And still, he looked upon his own reflection and felt nothing of who he had been. He saw darkness covering him in swaths, and on bad days wondered if he had in fact fallen to the shadows at the side of so many others in the Mystic Woodlands. He would still search for a name that could be his own, for the one that always came to mind never sounded genuine.
Today, however, was a good day. They were rare for now, but he took advantage of the lightness of his soul while he felt he still could. As the threshold drew nearer, he pulled his trotter's legs tighter to his chest and slowed his gait to a cheery sort of prance. That was the way he had moved once, before the scars that now covered him had appeared and before the scent of blood had begun to trail after him. He had felt free with each step, joyous with each landing of the earth beneath his full body once more.
Before him, casting long shadows on the threshold turf, stood a stallion Fence cannot accurately describe. He held a warrior's build and a bare neck; seemingly carried himself with a similar sense of weariness Fence had brought on his shoulders. Cautiously the russian bred boy drew close, soaking in the warm sun that was so uncharacteristic of the season.
"Good day," he spoke suavely, letting his words slip across the warm breezes to the slightly older stallion. There was something about the strange, bare appaloosa that drew Fence closer- something that elicited a strange fire deep in him.
He had never much liked the flame.
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Fate seemed to be riding on the warm, balmy winds that day. This was the precipice of something greater; I felt it stirring in the bones. Some ordinance of destiny had settled itself before me, presented in the guise of a strapping young stallion, pelted in soft gray, stepping his way into my presence. He was not met with antagonism in my visage; nor fear; nor joy at the opportunity for company. I admit, I was an empty, airless vessel at that moment. He was simply a boy coming into my sight, and I was just some wayward traveler he happened upon the highway. There was nothing muddled about those facts; there was nothing to complicate the arrangement of our star-crossed meeting.
Why it was star-crossed, I cannot say. It wasn’t a conscious thought of mine to gaze upon the gray stallion with an eye almost akin to expectation. I could confidently say I had never seen him once in my entire life, and yet something about his presence inspired completion to form in my brain. There was an original intent for me to travel to this forsaken place…and while this gray stallion was not Archibald and Vincent; he was not Wilder or Evers, and certainly wasn’t my….”mother”. He was none of those ill-fated members of my cracked, broken family, but somehow…..somehow, he was who I came to meet.
Simple as that.
“Indeed,” I said to him in my mild summer tenor, inclining my naked head in an offer of respect. My eyes were their own masters; they flitted over his body, calculating, decisive in their findings. This was a warrior’s stare, something ingrained in my mannerisms; I don’t remember learning how to analyze every encounter with the possibility for bloodshed. It was a mannerism I detested, but it persisted despite my distaste. It was useful too, no matter how rude or crass it seemed….I could only hope the gray stallion wouldn’t take it personally. Danger and prudence is never a personal thing.
“I don’t suppose you could assist me,” I began, my words formal and polite with the lilt of an inquiry on my tongue. My gaze was steady, no longer assuaging a possible opponent; if they had a look in them, I suppose they would’ve reflected my words: cordial, sincere, and ever so wary. “I’m searching for a particular group of peoples.” I paused then, for the first time uncertain; I wasn’t sure how I should approach the rather sensitive topic of my family. I decided to try a different tack. “Is there a place where I could possibly rest myself a while before I begin my search? Your assistance would be greatly appreciated, kind sir." I inclined my head once more, and it felt as though I sealed my fate.
[I was unfocused throughout this whole post. I apologize @.@]
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| Windtossed Foothills Warrior |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 15.3 hh :: 41 months |
| Adoptable |
05-09-2013, 01:27 PM
(This post was last modified: 05-09-2013, 02:08 PM by Lev Fence.)
Lev Fence</style>♥It became very quickly apparent to the grey stallion (in every sense of the word) that there was something very terribly wrong with the bare-necked soldier who stood so solidly before him.
He may have been entirely incorrect; it was perhaps an assumption of projection. He saw, reflected in the kind, brown hue of the appaloosa's eyes, his own image. He pictured himself perfectly, arriving on the doorstep of this new land, helovia, a ragged mess recovering from loss he could barely remember. Was it that he thought all entered the world like this—alone, bloody, staggering to step, gasping for breath? Was that not birth?
Had he not been born on the day that he had first come here?
No. A foolish notion. His mind may have been muddled at the best of times, but he remembered his mother, his life before this. He remembered her dark features: her body a comforting coal, her eyes the purest green. He almost saw her now, a mirage overlaid faintly across the features of this stallion. He trusted this stallion, trusted him as he had his own mother. He believed each word that flowed from the stranger's lips; in time he saw the strength in him. Fence had arrived weak and beaten down, but this stallion had that spark of freedom about him, even if he had perhaps only been running from his chains.
The unicorn asked questions that the equine could not answer. He was in no position to offer this stallion sanctuary, not really. He was a fighter of the grey, but he had joined after the war. He was a warrior, but in some ways retired. He counted himself among the ranks of the mercenaries, but still stopped to heal. The days of Orangemoon were, for him, days of recovery. He wondered if, in between seeking out his family (A family, what was that, even? It had been so long since he had felt another's warm touch that the grey stallion was beginning to forget), this old soldier needed rest.
Yes, of course he did! He said it himself. The equine felt suddenly and inordinately proud of himself. He had read an emotion, what a thrilling accomplishment. When emotion was so hard to come by, it was a joy to see it and understand it as clearly as this. Today may have been a good day, but it was quickly degenerating into a simple-minded one. Fence felt his wit fade into comfortable complacency as his tongue rolled to form the words to speak.
"I..." a slow start for the stallion. His brow furrowed as he grasped for the next word, his tail thwacked against his hindquarters as he absentmindedly tried to remember what he had planned. "I can only offer you what I do not truly have," he stated at last, snapping his gaze out of the distance and to meet with the eyes of the full-bodied stallion before him. "I have recently found myself a home among kind strangers, but I am by no means able to speak on their behalf. I would gladly offer you respite, and perhaps aid in your search... but I feel it is not my place to offer," he spoke rather sincerely, with a hint of disappointment in his tone. He did not want to lie to this kind stranger, he simply did not have it within him on this strange day, where his mind was clouded but the sky was clear (but what connection could one forge from that? Was there any connection? No. There was not.)
"I have very little to give you," he began again, swallowing a dry lump lodged in his throat as he spoke. "...even my own name escapes me, these days—and I would be terribly rude to ask for your own calling without having a firm understanding of my own. But as forgetful a soul as I may be, I remember being as you are now, standing upon this threshold. Whatever I can offer you, I will," he concluded with a lowering of his figure closer to the earth, and an extension of his black foreleg to shift his stance. He was generous today, on this strange, befuddled sort of day. He supposed, as he straightened his posture and let his head tilt in natural inattention, that there were worse things to be than generous, when one was not being himself.
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I stood in quiet patience as the grey stallion began to speak, hesitantly informing me of the situation I had stumbled upon, confessing the power he did not wield to grant me a definite haven for repose. I did not blame him for it; admittedly I felt very little in this moment, faced with the refreshing simplicity of the gray’s countenance; I was in a state of pure exhaustion that forced those little things that were normally so enjoyable to slip away from my grasp and reason. I begged his pardon silently in my mind for my apathy, but I was tired. He had effectively related the kind of usefulness he was to me...or rather, the kind of uselessness he was.
“Take me to your herd-mates, if you would will it,” I said to him mildly, my eyes lidded heavily and comfortably in the inexplicable heat, “Let them speak for themselves and see if I am unwelcome upon their territory. It may be a fruitless endeavor but….it’s a destination, anyways.” I allowed myself a soft smile; indeed, I was quite directionless, the pit in my stomach in no way serving as a compass to point out the roots of my sickness. I would have to find my fate on my own, and if I traveled in a labyrinth of useless circles then I would know the price of my sins.
Strange how, in the presence of this nameless gray stranger, the knots in my twisted gut began to consider unraveling themselves, knots that had been twisted steadfastly for some years now. I was in a place where I felt “wrong” all over myself; I was stained and unclean, with memories and names that felt “wrong” and spoke “wrong” things to me in the twilight of sleep, where I walked the halls of my mind and contemplated my failure. I was my own judge and scale, and always I would plunge myself into the allegorical lake of fire in my waking dreams.
I knew I hated myself; this was not an ongoing inquiry. I hated the flesh I was clothed with; I feared every breath I took, expecting noxious fumes to pour into my tainted lungs; my very name struck a hard, minor chord of discord within the bosom of my body, and to this day I cannot say why. My mind was a blur of things that I remembered and yet did not recognize; it was filled with objects that I had not planted there, and associations that did not belong. I was a wreck that craved absolution from a sin I did not know; the finding of this forest ushered in that possibility, the slim chance of forgiveness from some ethereal body of purity. Or the release that came from my brother’s anger and shame.
“I understand your amnesia,” I said to the gray stallion; the quiet smile had returned from where it fell, lost in the dark contemplations of my mind. It wasn’t a lie I told, because I did feel a spark of empathy from him…somehow. “Fear not; I will offer my own name, in friendship,” I offered, my head once more dipping respectfully, “I am Emerson.”
I fell quiet and listened to his words for a moment, the smile on my façade slipping somewhat. I was not happy as I stood there, on the precipice of some great journey of fate; I did not feel myself in this moment, speaking with the gray stranger. I didn’t want him to remember me like this, this drowning version of myself that elicited loathing from all four corners of my soul. I wanted to be properly healed before he deigned to think of Emerson—I did not want to be remembered as the broken husk of a stallion I was then.
It didn’t escape my notice that I wanted this stallion to remember me. I ignored it for the time being; I was much too tired to dwell upon such implications.
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| Windtossed Foothills Warrior |
| Stallion :: Equine :: 15.3 hh :: 41 months |
| Adoptable |
Lev Fence</style>♥
Old instincts called the flirt-made-warrior to return the smile he saw drifting across his new companion's features, but new urges were what brought meaning to each new action. Fence found himself stepping closer to Emerson, reaching out tentatively with a grey-tipped muzzle to brush against the bare, spotted neck of the older stallion. Fence enjoyed being told, even if it was in a roundabout manner, that this new stallion, Emerson, was his friend. And so he told himself that the strangely personal and perhaps even invasive gesture was one of newfound friendship.
And even though he found the solid curve of Emerson's bare neck fascinating, even though he found himself captivated by the rugged dusty and sweaty musk that on so many other mares drove him straight to the river for a bath, he told himself it was nothing out of the normal. It was just a stronger feeling, brought on by a sort of manly, brotherly bond.
For if the authority in the grey deemed Emerson worthy (and why wouldn't they—such a seemingly strong and handsome warrior,) Fence knew he would see much more of the appaloosa soldier. Fence pulled back and away from Emerson; he had lingered too long, perhaps made the dark unicorn uncomfortable with his presumptuous manner. Still, old habits died hard.
The grey boy turned from Emerson and almost pranced as he stepped so lightly away. Ahead lay before them the path back home, to The Foothills and The Grey that inhabited it. He struck the earth confidently with a jet black hoof, letting the cold wind stir the thin ribbons in his mane and propel him forward.
"Very well then, Emerson. No need to delay," he nickered faintly, casting his blue gaze back to catch the older stallion's honeyed one. His own voice dripped with pleasantry and a strange sort of innocent kindness. Once he would have been sharp with wit and the intention to further himself by taking advantage of another. Now, what more was he than a witless, charming messenger boy?
"It is, by the way," he said, softly and half to himself as he began to wander off, somewhat dazed, somewhat lost in a delicately tuned and crafted desire, "a pleasure to meet you."
[[Awful post. :x]]
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