Of all bastard suitors she had expected to come knocking at the door, fresh and willing to sweep her off her feet into some whirlwind bravado of testosterone fuelled endurance, whisking her away to some far-off herd land restrained by the same old set of feministic rules, this little filly wasn’t exactly her golden ticket. Willy Wonka himself was clearly not about to leap up from the sidelines with furiously twitching jazz hands and steal the show. That being said, who was she to complain? How her conscious flow of arbitrary lines of thought must bore you, ever the antagonist with her haphazard criticisms.
The form of glee one would expect of such a juvenile, squirming in anticipation at the near sighting of a fluttering golden ticket in the hands of an adoring mother appears not to have breached Sang’s mental response upon this fine evening. Simply a few too many times, she has navigated this well-worn path, allowed yet another to sweet talk her into a ridiculously under-exaggerated journey to some distant herd land. The herd lands themselves, why, you would swoon if you could envision the surreal paintings created by the narrative of a rather well versed salesperson. Often rather cliché, come to think of it; all those lush, green rolling hills, the earthy scent of forest clinging to the air, turquoise waters where shimmering koi could undoubtedly be expected to flip up and plant a damp kiss on your nostril. There was no use mocking these avid depictions used to enlist the untouched and oblivious, as plenty a time had Sang fallen for their persuasive tone – back in her younger years, of course. The promise of undying romance, unyielding power, or some ludicrous proposition of magic had always overruled her concerns.
Alas, herd life never quite seemed to live up to standard; hence her dismal convictions on this particular occasion. She holds no regrets of those years, whereas many would label them as purely wasted. No, whereas some leave footprints wherever they tread, or engrave their initials into the sides of age-old trees, Sang has evaded these common trends, instead leaving her lineage upon those ‘sweet green hills’ into which she was tempted, thus abandoning her bloodlines over quite a vast distance.
By now you must consider her shameful when compared to the usual tendencies of motherhood, however even she knows she’s hardly an ally of the old crippled witch, she who lives at the corner of the street. Ever posing a threat to the inquisitive young, a great weapon used by mother’s everywhere to construct threat after threat, intimidating their children into complacency. Won’t finish your dinner? Might we have to make a trip down to the corner? See what SHE’s serving up for tea? For underlying threats of cannibalism never failed to see the plates cleared.
No, Sang is a far cry from the monster under the stairs, detecting the purposeful little voice of the purposeful little filly, still unblemished by the resonating chords that afflict all mares in their growing years. Although hardly a giant herself, she extends her neck, tilting her head to eye the filly, amusement tinting her pale eyes.
”Miss Nomad? A curious address you’ve adopted there. Shall we replace it with Lysang to remain on better terms, little one?"
Before she has leave to continue, the arrival of a second causes Sang to turn. Yet another unicorn; not that she holds any grudge. Perhaps she has merely stumbled upon some unicorn ravaged threshold – now wouldn’t that be amusing?
”It is a place of residence I seek indeed, though perchance home is yet a step too far. You certainly sound well assured of your position –“
A third? Gosh, this really was turning out to be quite the high-tea event of the season. Clearly all ladies present had sent in their RSVP in due notice. Either way, the two boys seemed well aware of one another, in a slightly unusual, sociable manner – though was there an air of strife, which Sang could detect?
”How kind of you to extend my options, Sir Kaj?"
The slightest hint of a smirk played at her dusty lips. ”Forgive me for I fear I am slightly rusty in such practices, is General a title which calls upon such customs?”
The younger mare, seemingly brought by this stallion, provided a second insight into these territories of which she was being informed. Perhaps these ‘Foothills’ were not after all the sort of place where a girl can walk through those dark alleyways at night – not that there’s plenty an area which grants such security.
”And Adalaide, a pleasure. How.. interesting, that you suggest I may feel unwelcome amongst these fellows. Your proposition certainly interests me, yet I feel certain reservations – after all, what sort of a woman dictates her life upon the mere dreams of others?”
A snide remark, you may think, but somewhere along the line the cat had seemingly forgotten how to hold it’s tongue.
"blah blah blah."
ooc; eek sorry, it's been over a year since I did this, might be a little bit rusty :3
image - whitespiritwolf.deviantart.com
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