07-22-2018, 01:59 PM
Something had demanded her attention. There had been some inexplicable pervasion upon her consciousness, signaling a fervent drive to go beyond the boundaries of Nerine; a pilgrimage that had brought her to stand amidst a minute grouping of equines with a lone figure with a presence that demanded nothing short of respect standing before them. An educator of sorts, he seemed to be, delving out instructions to each sorted pair. The objective is clear—obtain and present research based findings rooted in Beqanna’s rich history. But an immediate problem is equally as clear--<i>How?</i> Breckin knew nothing of her own past beyond her first days in the Field, let alone that of an entire realm. No magics graced her abilities either, leaving the spotted mare with little headway in means of finding a sufficient starting point.
The group disperses, and a flustered Breckin begins to roam aimlessly, searching for any inkling of something that may guide her quest. At some point, she finds herself in the embrace of a meadow and tall grasses sway haphazardly in the breeze around her. So vehemently committed to her anxiety ridden thoughts of diminishing time, she doesn’t notice the obvious auditory warning sign, nor does she hardly notice the sudden sting upon her fore limb. As suddenly as the biting pain registers, it gives way to an almost pleasant tingling sensation, before that too shifts to an alarming loss of feeling altogether. The affected leg becomes useless, but whatever seems to be ailing her does not stop there. Rapidly the numbing aura becomes all consuming, and the panicked mare feels her mass meet with ground, suddenly unable to support the weight of her own body any longer. Her head feels heavy, <i>too heavy</i>, and gravity pulls that downward too to lay upon the blanket of tall stalks. Blackness swims in the corners of her eyes, threatening to snuff out the last lingering light of her existence. But there is little she can do to refuse the pervading darkness, and almost as immediately as it had first started, she succumbs; the last thing she can make out of the demonic haze is a distant glimmer of gold.
…
A frantic breath, desperate for air causes her eyes to snap open. Perhaps she is most startled by the fact that it was her own panicked inhalation that had awakened her, or perhaps it was that she once again stood in the small gathering she could have sworn she had only just departed from. Sudden awareness of the current situation envelopes her, willing her breathing to become more easy, more natural, and her deep gaze shifts to a younger fellow as he begins to speak his knowledge of Beqanna’s history. Pale ears politely remain alert, only fidgeting slightly as worry blossoms in her chest anew with each passing minute. What on earth was she going to say? She had failed in her endeavors.
The younger fellow’s mannerisms draw her away from the rising internal panic, her eyes harden drastically at the way he carries himself. <i>Disrespectful little git,</i> she mutters in the privacy of her own mind, before wondering if his ability was halitosis, watching with mild amusement at his display of withering a plant. She can’t help the small, cheeky smirk that creeps upon the lines of her lips, and for a brief moment she feels slightly more at ease. A smirk that grows a slight degree as she watches the girl named Pond deliver her own findings.
When the spotlight is finally upon her, Breckin puts on her best mask, stepping smoothly to the front, ready to openly admit her failure. At first her voice seems to remain elusive, unable to seem to find the proper wording necessary to air her confessions. Until a sudden clarity overrides everything else, bringing a euphoric wave of confidence to wash over her; she knew the answer, no, she had <i>experienced</i> the answer. The voice that falls from her ebony lips sounds distant and almost reminiscent, its tone matching the dreamy, far-off look that her brown eyes hold.
<i><b> ”It had started with the reign of the third queen of the Amazons, Grim Reaper. A renowned warrioress, she had held the crown for a great while. There had been so many attempts to take the throne, but the Queen had fervently defended her domain, </i>our home<i>. She had so much strength and perseverance, it was difficult to not respect her, even if we did not always agree. The teenage years of Beqanna passed into the dawn of the 20s, and our Queen grew wiser, older; until something somewhere broke within her. Whatever it was that had fractured, there was not cure, much to our chagrin. What had caused it? No one knew, and she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell us. We think the demanding weight of the heavily burdened crown was enough stress, enough pressure to even break the strong-willed in a weak moment.
That burden came to a head that day we heard shouting from the heights of the ledges. I remember the way the humid Jungle air clung thickly to my coat already slick with perspiration. When I broke through that line of deep green foliage, I was immediately struck by the sight of anguished cries and freshly spilled blood. What had happened? The Queen’s friend stood meekly, leaning against her adopted daughter’s shoulder for strength, recounting the event that had just taken place. Grim Reaper had attacked her, she had said, and her daughter at intervened in time to prevent a fatal blow by the Queen, but the battle had not been without its loss, for our leader had fell to her death. Upon the shock of the news, the limbs below me felt much too heavy, much too ill proportioned to support my own weight. How could this have happened? Was it even true? Despite my greatest efforts, I must admit I have my lingering doubts about the situation.
In the wake of the tragedy, there had been much mourning and grief, but little time to spare in the naming of the newest Queen. The Princess Aelia was placed upon the Amazonian throne. Her reign was ultimately uneventful, but where it lacked intrigue it made up for in heartache torn anew. The end of Queen Aelia’s young life in the year 21 sent us diving head first back into a period of mourning. Would our sadness ever meet an end?
But she did not depart from this world without a final decree, that the newborn Princess Antarda was to become Queen. Along with the sadness-- fear, anger, and confusion was quickly left to fill the gaping hole that our young Queen Aelia had left. Aelia’s half sister, Pandora, was perhaps the quickest to voice her doubts about the filly’s quick ascension to the throne and rightfully so. How could one with no life experiences be worthy of ruling a kingdom? But this, this was where our Amazonian resilience shown brightest in the darkest of times. Because Aelia’s final wish had been an order, it was our duty to make sure Antarda would succeed. We were to surround the girl and raise her up, my Sisters and I, nurture and guide her to meet her fullest potential as an Amazonian Queen fully should. And we did.” </i></b>
Breckin’s last sentence drifts away into the air, blinking her eyes in rapid succession as if to clear a lingering dream. Though she feels mildly confused about what had overcome her, the sense that her words had been rooted in truth left confidence overriding anything else. Perhaps it had been a hallucination or a dream re-visited, she couldn’t say for sure, as she took her place back within the ranks of students. The only thing she could say with certainty now, was that the pride in understanding a small part of the Sisterhood’s rich ancestry a bit more, left her desiring to know even more.
_____________________
Bonus question answer: The Garrano, Sorraia, and Lusitano are breeds of the Iberian type with origins in Portugal, not Spain.
*bold & italicized lettering denotes essay portion of quest. Essay word count is 539.
The group disperses, and a flustered Breckin begins to roam aimlessly, searching for any inkling of something that may guide her quest. At some point, she finds herself in the embrace of a meadow and tall grasses sway haphazardly in the breeze around her. So vehemently committed to her anxiety ridden thoughts of diminishing time, she doesn’t notice the obvious auditory warning sign, nor does she hardly notice the sudden sting upon her fore limb. As suddenly as the biting pain registers, it gives way to an almost pleasant tingling sensation, before that too shifts to an alarming loss of feeling altogether. The affected leg becomes useless, but whatever seems to be ailing her does not stop there. Rapidly the numbing aura becomes all consuming, and the panicked mare feels her mass meet with ground, suddenly unable to support the weight of her own body any longer. Her head feels heavy, <i>too heavy</i>, and gravity pulls that downward too to lay upon the blanket of tall stalks. Blackness swims in the corners of her eyes, threatening to snuff out the last lingering light of her existence. But there is little she can do to refuse the pervading darkness, and almost as immediately as it had first started, she succumbs; the last thing she can make out of the demonic haze is a distant glimmer of gold.
…
A frantic breath, desperate for air causes her eyes to snap open. Perhaps she is most startled by the fact that it was her own panicked inhalation that had awakened her, or perhaps it was that she once again stood in the small gathering she could have sworn she had only just departed from. Sudden awareness of the current situation envelopes her, willing her breathing to become more easy, more natural, and her deep gaze shifts to a younger fellow as he begins to speak his knowledge of Beqanna’s history. Pale ears politely remain alert, only fidgeting slightly as worry blossoms in her chest anew with each passing minute. What on earth was she going to say? She had failed in her endeavors.
The younger fellow’s mannerisms draw her away from the rising internal panic, her eyes harden drastically at the way he carries himself. <i>Disrespectful little git,</i> she mutters in the privacy of her own mind, before wondering if his ability was halitosis, watching with mild amusement at his display of withering a plant. She can’t help the small, cheeky smirk that creeps upon the lines of her lips, and for a brief moment she feels slightly more at ease. A smirk that grows a slight degree as she watches the girl named Pond deliver her own findings.
When the spotlight is finally upon her, Breckin puts on her best mask, stepping smoothly to the front, ready to openly admit her failure. At first her voice seems to remain elusive, unable to seem to find the proper wording necessary to air her confessions. Until a sudden clarity overrides everything else, bringing a euphoric wave of confidence to wash over her; she knew the answer, no, she had <i>experienced</i> the answer. The voice that falls from her ebony lips sounds distant and almost reminiscent, its tone matching the dreamy, far-off look that her brown eyes hold.
<i><b> ”It had started with the reign of the third queen of the Amazons, Grim Reaper. A renowned warrioress, she had held the crown for a great while. There had been so many attempts to take the throne, but the Queen had fervently defended her domain, </i>our home<i>. She had so much strength and perseverance, it was difficult to not respect her, even if we did not always agree. The teenage years of Beqanna passed into the dawn of the 20s, and our Queen grew wiser, older; until something somewhere broke within her. Whatever it was that had fractured, there was not cure, much to our chagrin. What had caused it? No one knew, and she couldn’t, or wouldn’t, tell us. We think the demanding weight of the heavily burdened crown was enough stress, enough pressure to even break the strong-willed in a weak moment.
That burden came to a head that day we heard shouting from the heights of the ledges. I remember the way the humid Jungle air clung thickly to my coat already slick with perspiration. When I broke through that line of deep green foliage, I was immediately struck by the sight of anguished cries and freshly spilled blood. What had happened? The Queen’s friend stood meekly, leaning against her adopted daughter’s shoulder for strength, recounting the event that had just taken place. Grim Reaper had attacked her, she had said, and her daughter at intervened in time to prevent a fatal blow by the Queen, but the battle had not been without its loss, for our leader had fell to her death. Upon the shock of the news, the limbs below me felt much too heavy, much too ill proportioned to support my own weight. How could this have happened? Was it even true? Despite my greatest efforts, I must admit I have my lingering doubts about the situation.
In the wake of the tragedy, there had been much mourning and grief, but little time to spare in the naming of the newest Queen. The Princess Aelia was placed upon the Amazonian throne. Her reign was ultimately uneventful, but where it lacked intrigue it made up for in heartache torn anew. The end of Queen Aelia’s young life in the year 21 sent us diving head first back into a period of mourning. Would our sadness ever meet an end?
But she did not depart from this world without a final decree, that the newborn Princess Antarda was to become Queen. Along with the sadness-- fear, anger, and confusion was quickly left to fill the gaping hole that our young Queen Aelia had left. Aelia’s half sister, Pandora, was perhaps the quickest to voice her doubts about the filly’s quick ascension to the throne and rightfully so. How could one with no life experiences be worthy of ruling a kingdom? But this, this was where our Amazonian resilience shown brightest in the darkest of times. Because Aelia’s final wish had been an order, it was our duty to make sure Antarda would succeed. We were to surround the girl and raise her up, my Sisters and I, nurture and guide her to meet her fullest potential as an Amazonian Queen fully should. And we did.” </i></b>
Breckin’s last sentence drifts away into the air, blinking her eyes in rapid succession as if to clear a lingering dream. Though she feels mildly confused about what had overcome her, the sense that her words had been rooted in truth left confidence overriding anything else. Perhaps it had been a hallucination or a dream re-visited, she couldn’t say for sure, as she took her place back within the ranks of students. The only thing she could say with certainty now, was that the pride in understanding a small part of the Sisterhood’s rich ancestry a bit more, left her desiring to know even more.
_____________________
Bonus question answer: The Garrano, Sorraia, and Lusitano are breeds of the Iberian type with origins in Portugal, not Spain.
*bold & italicized lettering denotes essay portion of quest. Essay word count is 539.