12-26-2017, 05:53 PM
Although Wound would still consider her brothers’ protective little band to be home, Tephra is quickly flourishing into something akin to her family — maybe even something more. With each sunrise, she finds herself thanking Femur for bringing her to the volcanic island, for bringing her to a place she never knew she could enjoy so sweetly.
She wants to share her happiness with others.
That desire brings her to the field. Autumn still holds a grip over Beqanna, although it is weak. Tephra’s seasonal temperatures rarely vary past the governance of the volcano — granting them humid weather all throughout the year — but the scents of autumn and winter’s decaying battle does waft past the outer borders of their island. Wound finds she loves the refreshing scent of winter’s chill, especially in contrast to the sun-kissed, ashy heat of Tephra.
As she enters the field, Wound gives herself a hearty shake. She has no winter coat to keep the breeze off her shoulders, but the brisk walk to the field has lent her some protection from the cold. Coffee-colored eyes glance around the field for a moment, a pleasant expression on her face. Many possible recruits are already engaged in conversation with one or two kingdom-members and Wound gives a gentle smile to a few stallions who pause their conversation to inspect her with bewilderment and mild disgust.
She is exceptionally aware of her deformities, and the looks that cling to her back like desperate burrs. When Wound had first ventured past the protection of her brothers, their gazes had felt like bitter daggers slicing into her skin. She pays them no mind now, having embraced her bravery and uniqueness among the thick fronds and ashy shorelines of Tephra.
An indigo mare stands alone, seemingly fine to enjoy her own company. Wound limps over, silvery locks sliding against her slender neck as a gentle wind glides along the open expanse. A warm nicker leaves the silver bay’s mouth as she approaches, before she comes to a lilting halt. “I must admit, I’m rather envious of your color.” Her voice is sweet and amiable, the words sliding over one another like a peaceful current along smooth rocks. A gentle smile dances across her mouth, nearly on the cusp of being shy.
@[Epithet]
She wants to share her happiness with others.
That desire brings her to the field. Autumn still holds a grip over Beqanna, although it is weak. Tephra’s seasonal temperatures rarely vary past the governance of the volcano — granting them humid weather all throughout the year — but the scents of autumn and winter’s decaying battle does waft past the outer borders of their island. Wound finds she loves the refreshing scent of winter’s chill, especially in contrast to the sun-kissed, ashy heat of Tephra.
As she enters the field, Wound gives herself a hearty shake. She has no winter coat to keep the breeze off her shoulders, but the brisk walk to the field has lent her some protection from the cold. Coffee-colored eyes glance around the field for a moment, a pleasant expression on her face. Many possible recruits are already engaged in conversation with one or two kingdom-members and Wound gives a gentle smile to a few stallions who pause their conversation to inspect her with bewilderment and mild disgust.
She is exceptionally aware of her deformities, and the looks that cling to her back like desperate burrs. When Wound had first ventured past the protection of her brothers, their gazes had felt like bitter daggers slicing into her skin. She pays them no mind now, having embraced her bravery and uniqueness among the thick fronds and ashy shorelines of Tephra.
An indigo mare stands alone, seemingly fine to enjoy her own company. Wound limps over, silvery locks sliding against her slender neck as a gentle wind glides along the open expanse. A warm nicker leaves the silver bay’s mouth as she approaches, before she comes to a lilting halt. “I must admit, I’m rather envious of your color.” Her voice is sweet and amiable, the words sliding over one another like a peaceful current along smooth rocks. A gentle smile dances across her mouth, nearly on the cusp of being shy.
@[Epithet]