09-15-2018, 06:52 PM
The odd colored feathers at the crook of my right wing refuse to settle smoothly against their golden counterparts regardless of how often I twitch the muscles beneath. It is a distraction that I do not appreciate, not when I am doing my best to keep watch around me. It is difficult to settle anymore, to truly relax. It is all but impossible to do in the meadow and so I do not even try. Instead, I watch the creatures around me, trace their paths through the muddy snow, speculate as to their destinations.
I had honed my imagination in childhood, when my only companions were my mother and uncle and those fit to meet an impossibly young queen. I run my blue-grey gaze across the countless strangers – a mahogany bay, a painfully lemon pony, a champagne with a silver mane – but none catch my interest for very long. Yet despite my lack of social interaction in this most social of places, I make no move to leave. My twitching wings settle at my sides, held high to better cover the plethora of scars across my neck and back. My blue-to-white mane is long, painstakingly maintained and my single vanity. It covers the scarring across my withers and shoulders, and I am grateful that time has begun to lessen the redness of them, allowing them to blend more easily into my dun coat.
Time continues to tick on, and I do nothing more than turn my head now and again to better see something every now and again. I begin to grow bored, and there is an uncomfortably numb sensation beginning to build in my left hind leg. Rather than torment myself, I engage my neighbor in brief conversation, discovering that the mulberry roan is here to get a little time away from her herd. Her life sounds intriguing, but I can only tolerate her nasally voice for a few moments before I disengage from the conversation and head for a less populous area of the meadow.
A bitter gust of wind blows past, and I glance to the clouds overhead. They look heavy with rain, and I remember the brewing storm that I had seen on my journey here. It is coming sooner than I’d thought; perhaps I should seek shelter. I can’t quite make up my mind, and I pause, one navy hoof half-lifted as the thunder crashes overhead.
@[Elektrum]
I had honed my imagination in childhood, when my only companions were my mother and uncle and those fit to meet an impossibly young queen. I run my blue-grey gaze across the countless strangers – a mahogany bay, a painfully lemon pony, a champagne with a silver mane – but none catch my interest for very long. Yet despite my lack of social interaction in this most social of places, I make no move to leave. My twitching wings settle at my sides, held high to better cover the plethora of scars across my neck and back. My blue-to-white mane is long, painstakingly maintained and my single vanity. It covers the scarring across my withers and shoulders, and I am grateful that time has begun to lessen the redness of them, allowing them to blend more easily into my dun coat.
Time continues to tick on, and I do nothing more than turn my head now and again to better see something every now and again. I begin to grow bored, and there is an uncomfortably numb sensation beginning to build in my left hind leg. Rather than torment myself, I engage my neighbor in brief conversation, discovering that the mulberry roan is here to get a little time away from her herd. Her life sounds intriguing, but I can only tolerate her nasally voice for a few moments before I disengage from the conversation and head for a less populous area of the meadow.
A bitter gust of wind blows past, and I glance to the clouds overhead. They look heavy with rain, and I remember the brewing storm that I had seen on my journey here. It is coming sooner than I’d thought; perhaps I should seek shelter. I can’t quite make up my mind, and I pause, one navy hoof half-lifted as the thunder crashes overhead.
@[Elektrum]
