01-02-2019, 07:01 PM
The shackles of the contagion have not found her yet, though she sees those captured in its prison every day. The dead and the dying are now like acorns strewn across her path; more often than not, she kicks them out of the way when she cannot be helped to divert her course.
The part of her that claims to be a magician’s daughter holds the contagion in contempt, idiotically traversing across the whole of Beqanna while fully believing in her immunity. The other part of her knows better; but she ignores it, steadfastly devoted to her eventual downfall in the name of egotism.
Countless years spent on her own hardened her already steely exterior, lending her aura a blackness on top of the hue of her pelt. Though she spent little to no time grooming or maintain herself, the faintly Arabian creature presented an almost-forgotten kind of beauty to any who happened to glimpse her as she flitted between forests, rivers, and valleys. The Tundra had fallen long ago, and indeed, king Errant's reign had fallen even sooner. Still, she finds herself in search of something akin to her birth home; but none of the lands ever suited her, and so she never stayed long. Little did she know about the isle of ice to the north, though she could easily fly high enough to spot it.
These days, she preferred to walk; despite her self-proclaimed isolation, she couldn’t help but to imagine that she hoped to meet someone along her meandering journey. That is to say, she thought about thinking about finding someone; but she would never admit to something so needy. At the very least, she might admit that she has more of a chance down here amongst the flightless, than floating up above in the clouds. Even the thought of utilizing her self-telekinesis renders the regal mare ill; and so she dismisses it with one sharp slash of her horned head, the ice-silver eyes set in her wide skull narrow as she continues through the unmarked underbrush.
--
Some time later – for she has certainly not kept track, having let go of that habit years ago when she realized that no one she loved or even knew yet lived here – the forest around her clears, and an opening appears. An early autumn snowfall has left the leaf-strewn meadow floor dusty and almost to her liking, though the once-royal female prefers permafrost to soil.
Seeing no one else about, the mare steps forward, claiming this land as her own. Xiah, she thinks to the land around her, staring down her nose at the veritable wasteland with the haughtiness of any queen. She thinks this as if in doing so, the land might bend to her will and make itself that which she dreams of; but the land ignores her, and the unicorn stiffly rolls her eyes. Halting at a random, thoughtless point (for who is she to care any more what others think of her decisions), the mare swings her head abruptly to her flank, scratching an itch there with a blasé countenance so strong, one could almost write her off as but another bore of a horse.
Almost, anyhow.
The part of her that claims to be a magician’s daughter holds the contagion in contempt, idiotically traversing across the whole of Beqanna while fully believing in her immunity. The other part of her knows better; but she ignores it, steadfastly devoted to her eventual downfall in the name of egotism.
Countless years spent on her own hardened her already steely exterior, lending her aura a blackness on top of the hue of her pelt. Though she spent little to no time grooming or maintain herself, the faintly Arabian creature presented an almost-forgotten kind of beauty to any who happened to glimpse her as she flitted between forests, rivers, and valleys. The Tundra had fallen long ago, and indeed, king Errant's reign had fallen even sooner. Still, she finds herself in search of something akin to her birth home; but none of the lands ever suited her, and so she never stayed long. Little did she know about the isle of ice to the north, though she could easily fly high enough to spot it.
These days, she preferred to walk; despite her self-proclaimed isolation, she couldn’t help but to imagine that she hoped to meet someone along her meandering journey. That is to say, she thought about thinking about finding someone; but she would never admit to something so needy. At the very least, she might admit that she has more of a chance down here amongst the flightless, than floating up above in the clouds. Even the thought of utilizing her self-telekinesis renders the regal mare ill; and so she dismisses it with one sharp slash of her horned head, the ice-silver eyes set in her wide skull narrow as she continues through the unmarked underbrush.
--
Some time later – for she has certainly not kept track, having let go of that habit years ago when she realized that no one she loved or even knew yet lived here – the forest around her clears, and an opening appears. An early autumn snowfall has left the leaf-strewn meadow floor dusty and almost to her liking, though the once-royal female prefers permafrost to soil.
Seeing no one else about, the mare steps forward, claiming this land as her own. Xiah, she thinks to the land around her, staring down her nose at the veritable wasteland with the haughtiness of any queen. She thinks this as if in doing so, the land might bend to her will and make itself that which she dreams of; but the land ignores her, and the unicorn stiffly rolls her eyes. Halting at a random, thoughtless point (for who is she to care any more what others think of her decisions), the mare swings her head abruptly to her flank, scratching an itch there with a blasé countenance so strong, one could almost write her off as but another bore of a horse.
Almost, anyhow.