Post by .sideways.glance. on Apr 12, 2007 20:13:47 GMT -5
A slight gust of wind. The rustle of still wintered trees in the spring’s evening air. The glow of a tired sphere retiring to its resting place. This is the time the lone vixen takes her steps. Punctuated by a strong whiff of the new habitat, and a snort outward, almost in disgust. The almost ebon coat glows a golden reflection nearly masquerading as camouflage. One step. Another huff. Two steps, three, and four. It was effortless for her, but she remained cautious – just barely hidden. She had not emerged in several years after her seclusion and nearly forgot what it was like to roam an inhabited territory. And they said the equus were herd animals… She survived, of course. What’s new? The vix was deliberate in her action as if to ensure others took note of her, but at the same time remained aloof. She needed not to look around – she took in every detail in one simple glance. Hence her namesake, one might suppose.
The deadened debris of the previous year crunched under her hooves, though it gave no inkling to her drafty weight. She knew how to tiptoe through the forests, how to slink through the meadows. On the contrary, she knew how to stand her ground, how to rip through her adversary. She was a walking oxymoron of sorts, but in attributes benevolent to her survival.
Another gust of wind. Near eye finally visible to onlookers as the tresses danced to the far side. Chocolate gaze flirted with the terrain. Suppose she had to be ‘claimed’. Should be interesting. If they could predict her, it’d be a first. Some days she couldn’t even predict her own actions. Fight or fly? Perhaps it would be up to the claimer to know the outcome. Either way, this harlot was prepared. A huff. A whisk of the tail feathers. Slowly she ebbs her dark masque toward the new greens beneath her. A pinch and a pluck while ears tango above. Constantly observant. Constantly aloof. Her fate may soon be decided for her, but at the same time she will soon decide her fate.
A thought. A hope. Fleeting. Nevermore. Scarred canvas was all that was left. It was obvious her plight was less than enchanting. It mattered not. She was here (though slightly more than an empty shell). It was not her desire to be a ghost to the lands, but to become as prominent as she was in the past… before she faded into the mists. The dew has settled, and with it, the mare returned to the public eye. Feathered feet trudged further into eyesight. Escaping the safety of the thicket. Entering the hazard of the unknown. Now was her chance – or was it theirs? A chance for what? We’ll soon find out Lowered muzzle swiftly adjusted skyward, then settled for the middle. Parking regally in full view, she waited….
The deadened debris of the previous year crunched under her hooves, though it gave no inkling to her drafty weight. She knew how to tiptoe through the forests, how to slink through the meadows. On the contrary, she knew how to stand her ground, how to rip through her adversary. She was a walking oxymoron of sorts, but in attributes benevolent to her survival.
Another gust of wind. Near eye finally visible to onlookers as the tresses danced to the far side. Chocolate gaze flirted with the terrain. Suppose she had to be ‘claimed’. Should be interesting. If they could predict her, it’d be a first. Some days she couldn’t even predict her own actions. Fight or fly? Perhaps it would be up to the claimer to know the outcome. Either way, this harlot was prepared. A huff. A whisk of the tail feathers. Slowly she ebbs her dark masque toward the new greens beneath her. A pinch and a pluck while ears tango above. Constantly observant. Constantly aloof. Her fate may soon be decided for her, but at the same time she will soon decide her fate.
A thought. A hope. Fleeting. Nevermore. Scarred canvas was all that was left. It was obvious her plight was less than enchanting. It mattered not. She was here (though slightly more than an empty shell). It was not her desire to be a ghost to the lands, but to become as prominent as she was in the past… before she faded into the mists. The dew has settled, and with it, the mare returned to the public eye. Feathered feet trudged further into eyesight. Escaping the safety of the thicket. Entering the hazard of the unknown. Now was her chance – or was it theirs? A chance for what? We’ll soon find out Lowered muzzle swiftly adjusted skyward, then settled for the middle. Parking regally in full view, she waited….
