05-12-2015, 01:34 PM
the game is not played alone.
life has a hopeful undertone.
Although she doesn’t have the burden of a crown hanging over her delicate head, she has her own sort of pressures. She is pressured to stay in hidden a doe among wolves. She is pressured to keep her ivy strands closed tight around her like a protective armor. She is pressure to put on the masquerade of intimidation and darkness in order to keep her truths securely fastened in hiding.
It gives her plenty to think about and it tires her out rather efficiently, but thankfully there are places outside of the Valley where she can put away the mask and relieve her acting skills. She travels to the meadow, now – slender legs dancing across the ground in long steps – and as she gets further from her home she begins to slide into a state of ease. She breathes easier and her muscles relax slowly, bright intense green eyes glancing around the area with a carefree look. She doesn’t have to hide, here (unless another Valley member is spotted, in which she transforms back into the doe hiding beneath the wolf’s skin) and it sets her mind at ease.
The meadow, having recently become one of her more favorite places to spend daytime hours, isn’t too busy; in fact, it’s during the afternoon lulling hours that she enjoys it the most. There’s a sleepy sort of veil that falls across the gathering place, transforming the usual loud and teeming waters into drowsy shallows. Foals will return from playing with their newfound friends to collapse at their mother’s heels and fall into a sun-induced nap while their parents watch over their children carefully. The few wandering loners doze calmly in the shadow of a sparse tree and a few childhood friends grown adults chat quietly in the corner.
She’s an awkward mixture of filly and mare, a hastily-thrown together combination of growing limbs and childish lines turning curvy and feminine. Her delicate face contains hints of childhood and yet also shows the grooves and slopes of maturity. Nonetheless, the very real fact is that she is turning into quite the pretty thing, although she doesn’t know it herself. She cannot, however, stop the fact that she senses the gazes of colts her age, their young eyes grasping the growing figure of her body and yet not understanding exactly what causes them to stare. It makes her skin itch, but she forces her brilliant eyes to turn toward them until they look away in immature shyness.
Seeking shelter away from the avid eyes, the doe turns toward a tree where another stallion is resting, although he’s a number of years older than her. It makes her feel a tad safer from the young colts (she knows she can hold her own, but the muscle of another man reminds her of her father and the red splashed ‘uncle’ that always seems to hang around them with carefully protective eyes) but the doe still hopes he won’t be disturbed or angry with her presence.
Settling down, bright green eyes glance toward him. Shyly, she says, “I hope I’m not bothering you… My name’s Cerva.”
It gives her plenty to think about and it tires her out rather efficiently, but thankfully there are places outside of the Valley where she can put away the mask and relieve her acting skills. She travels to the meadow, now – slender legs dancing across the ground in long steps – and as she gets further from her home she begins to slide into a state of ease. She breathes easier and her muscles relax slowly, bright intense green eyes glancing around the area with a carefree look. She doesn’t have to hide, here (unless another Valley member is spotted, in which she transforms back into the doe hiding beneath the wolf’s skin) and it sets her mind at ease.
The meadow, having recently become one of her more favorite places to spend daytime hours, isn’t too busy; in fact, it’s during the afternoon lulling hours that she enjoys it the most. There’s a sleepy sort of veil that falls across the gathering place, transforming the usual loud and teeming waters into drowsy shallows. Foals will return from playing with their newfound friends to collapse at their mother’s heels and fall into a sun-induced nap while their parents watch over their children carefully. The few wandering loners doze calmly in the shadow of a sparse tree and a few childhood friends grown adults chat quietly in the corner.
She’s an awkward mixture of filly and mare, a hastily-thrown together combination of growing limbs and childish lines turning curvy and feminine. Her delicate face contains hints of childhood and yet also shows the grooves and slopes of maturity. Nonetheless, the very real fact is that she is turning into quite the pretty thing, although she doesn’t know it herself. She cannot, however, stop the fact that she senses the gazes of colts her age, their young eyes grasping the growing figure of her body and yet not understanding exactly what causes them to stare. It makes her skin itch, but she forces her brilliant eyes to turn toward them until they look away in immature shyness.
Seeking shelter away from the avid eyes, the doe turns toward a tree where another stallion is resting, although he’s a number of years older than her. It makes her feel a tad safer from the young colts (she knows she can hold her own, but the muscle of another man reminds her of her father and the red splashed ‘uncle’ that always seems to hang around them with carefully protective eyes) but the doe still hopes he won’t be disturbed or angry with her presence.
Settling down, bright green eyes glance toward him. Shyly, she says, “I hope I’m not bothering you… My name’s Cerva.”
cerva
eight & noori