05-20-2017, 05:15 PM
She hasn’t been in the meadow for quite some time. She has done this purposely; she wishes to avoid many of those who wander Beqanna. She is a strong and tough little mare, but her recent situations have made her realize that those who have more power will quickly snub those without power, despite their passion and bravery, out. Being back in the meadow brought back many feelings of helplessness and vulnerability – the memory wasn’t dull or fuzzy, but instead clear and crisp as if it had happened yesterday. How she had been precariously perched on the edge of death by cunning tricksters who forced her to do terrible things in exchange for not letting her drown. To this day, she does not remember the foal she had found and brought to them. Perhaps her mind did not wish to remember.
Even in the warmth of spring, she feels her ebony skin prick as a quick shiver runs down her spine. Her nostrils widen as she snorts sharply, rolling her shoulders to brush away the feeling of dread that fills the pit of her stomach. Despite her fears, her fear of being weak was stronger. She swallows hard the lump in her throat as she begins to move through the meadow, her muscled legs bringing her through lands she had once known so well.
Merida found herself presently residing in the Hills. There wasn’t much there to be wary of, though there had been some recent activity from others across the broad span of Beqanna. Merida had drawn away from them, not eager to meet more horses with abilities and power that was in no way comparable to her. For where she was quick, they were quicker. Where she was strong, they were stronger. The idea maddens her, this feeling of feebleness that pure nature has given her.
She is no longer gracefully trotting through the long, swaying grasses of the meadow. Her head is low and her ears back while she plods along, a sense of unrest about her. She ignores everyone, wondering angrily to herself why she has found herself here once again in the meadow, where she could easily be picked off as easy prey simply because she had no power to stop it. Truthfully, Merida knew the answer.
She was too stubborn to let fear keep her from what she wanted: freedom.
Suddenly her hooves are on wet, compacted dirt of a small shoreline that opens up into a small stream. She stops suddenly, her wild and tangled tendrils falling around her ebony face and neck like red flames licking her skin. She stares down into the water, her dark red eyes staring back at her in a rippling and distorted reflection. She lifts a single foreleg and paws at the water in boredom, unsatisfied at the face that was in the water. After a moment, she realizes she is not alone.
Flaming red eyes glance upwards at the pale golden stallion that had been drinking from the stream at the time she approached. She had not seen him (mostly because she didn’t care to see anyone recently), but as she had stood scraping at water with a black hoof, she noticed him out of the corner of her eye. She stops immediately, knowing that he’s been most likely watching her this entire time, with her foreleg still raised as she freezes momentarily to look at him. Her black ears flick backwards slightly and her red tail slashes against the freckled red of her onyx hips, a soft snort leaving her as she lifts her chin pointedly.
Her poised foreleg then firmly plants itself back in the water, splashing quietly in the shallows. She presses her lips into a thin line. “I hate this place,” she mutters to him, as if in an attempt to explain why she had been pawing at the water in the first place. The black mare lowers her head to drink, saying nothing more and hoping she won’t embarrass herself to any more strangers. She won’t be surprised if he chooses to ignore her, and part of her hopes he does.
Even in the warmth of spring, she feels her ebony skin prick as a quick shiver runs down her spine. Her nostrils widen as she snorts sharply, rolling her shoulders to brush away the feeling of dread that fills the pit of her stomach. Despite her fears, her fear of being weak was stronger. She swallows hard the lump in her throat as she begins to move through the meadow, her muscled legs bringing her through lands she had once known so well.
Merida found herself presently residing in the Hills. There wasn’t much there to be wary of, though there had been some recent activity from others across the broad span of Beqanna. Merida had drawn away from them, not eager to meet more horses with abilities and power that was in no way comparable to her. For where she was quick, they were quicker. Where she was strong, they were stronger. The idea maddens her, this feeling of feebleness that pure nature has given her.
She is no longer gracefully trotting through the long, swaying grasses of the meadow. Her head is low and her ears back while she plods along, a sense of unrest about her. She ignores everyone, wondering angrily to herself why she has found herself here once again in the meadow, where she could easily be picked off as easy prey simply because she had no power to stop it. Truthfully, Merida knew the answer.
She was too stubborn to let fear keep her from what she wanted: freedom.
Suddenly her hooves are on wet, compacted dirt of a small shoreline that opens up into a small stream. She stops suddenly, her wild and tangled tendrils falling around her ebony face and neck like red flames licking her skin. She stares down into the water, her dark red eyes staring back at her in a rippling and distorted reflection. She lifts a single foreleg and paws at the water in boredom, unsatisfied at the face that was in the water. After a moment, she realizes she is not alone.
Flaming red eyes glance upwards at the pale golden stallion that had been drinking from the stream at the time she approached. She had not seen him (mostly because she didn’t care to see anyone recently), but as she had stood scraping at water with a black hoof, she noticed him out of the corner of her eye. She stops immediately, knowing that he’s been most likely watching her this entire time, with her foreleg still raised as she freezes momentarily to look at him. Her black ears flick backwards slightly and her red tail slashes against the freckled red of her onyx hips, a soft snort leaving her as she lifts her chin pointedly.
Her poised foreleg then firmly plants itself back in the water, splashing quietly in the shallows. She presses her lips into a thin line. “I hate this place,” she mutters to him, as if in an attempt to explain why she had been pawing at the water in the first place. The black mare lowers her head to drink, saying nothing more and hoping she won’t embarrass herself to any more strangers. She won’t be surprised if he chooses to ignore her, and part of her hopes he does.