If the magic of her birth still pulsed in the depths of her veins, Epithet would have felt the gentle plea of the disoriented queen. Beqanna changes from day to day and the fall of each bloated sun takes countless souls beneath the crush of it's golden embrace. Epithet has been fortunate to defy the nature of typical equines by using her abilities to just simply exist.
Often, the small mare was a mist on the meadow, burning away as the sun rose. It was a much easier, much simpler, way to exist without having to be present. There was no desire to carry on lengthy conversations. Epithet, when younger, had though the more words she crammed into the space between her and another meant they truly cared...took interest in the small enclosure that had consisted in her world but the world was far crueler than that.
But that was long ago when she was naive in the wilderness of the world, a pretty virginal sacrifice to the wolves.
Dark feet sink into the softness of wet pebbles and sand as she walks the river. It was peaceful this time of year as others too refuge in their harems, the beds of others, keeping warm in the winter nights. Epithet enjoys the feel of icy wind nibbling at the tender warm places of her body. She did not chose any other skin or form other than her God given body (a nicely assembled porcelain gray that defies all logic of aging) to walk the edge of the joyfully gurgling waters.
Up ahead, struggling, a pale gold smudge seems to dangle against the bland grey of winter sky. It steps with uncertainty and it draws Epi like a shark who smells blood in the water. Carefully...collectively, the smaller mare approaches with wide, dark eyes. The other is a woman...and-
d e a t h
Epithet shivers and recoils slightly but attempts to quell the reaction. Something is not right, Beqanna has taken and given before but this...this is unnatural. Epithet is centuries old but still does not know this mare. Perhaps a reincarnation? No. Her eyes are far too wide and and watching...old and gathering. Epithet smells the earth in her throat, a sweet scent of rot from something unearthed and unholy but without her magic there is no way for her to know much more than the five senses available to her.
'Hello there..." Easy enough, a greeting that is cautious but still offered. The grey mare is careful to avoid any trickery as she remains distant but inclined to know this other. Magic existed in Beqanna since the beginning of time but even this was something Epithet never thought existed (nor would she ever thought she would meet!) Tales of Craft and her reign were bedtime stories for the young and foolish and little did Epi know that she stood in the presence of such lush royalty embedded deep in Beqanna's torn history.
Often, the small mare was a mist on the meadow, burning away as the sun rose. It was a much easier, much simpler, way to exist without having to be present. There was no desire to carry on lengthy conversations. Epithet, when younger, had though the more words she crammed into the space between her and another meant they truly cared...took interest in the small enclosure that had consisted in her world but the world was far crueler than that.
But that was long ago when she was naive in the wilderness of the world, a pretty virginal sacrifice to the wolves.
Dark feet sink into the softness of wet pebbles and sand as she walks the river. It was peaceful this time of year as others too refuge in their harems, the beds of others, keeping warm in the winter nights. Epithet enjoys the feel of icy wind nibbling at the tender warm places of her body. She did not chose any other skin or form other than her God given body (a nicely assembled porcelain gray that defies all logic of aging) to walk the edge of the joyfully gurgling waters.
Up ahead, struggling, a pale gold smudge seems to dangle against the bland grey of winter sky. It steps with uncertainty and it draws Epi like a shark who smells blood in the water. Carefully...collectively, the smaller mare approaches with wide, dark eyes. The other is a woman...and-
d e a t h
Epithet shivers and recoils slightly but attempts to quell the reaction. Something is not right, Beqanna has taken and given before but this...this is unnatural. Epithet is centuries old but still does not know this mare. Perhaps a reincarnation? No. Her eyes are far too wide and and watching...old and gathering. Epithet smells the earth in her throat, a sweet scent of rot from something unearthed and unholy but without her magic there is no way for her to know much more than the five senses available to her.
'Hello there..." Easy enough, a greeting that is cautious but still offered. The grey mare is careful to avoid any trickery as she remains distant but inclined to know this other. Magic existed in Beqanna since the beginning of time but even this was something Epithet never thought existed (nor would she ever thought she would meet!) Tales of Craft and her reign were bedtime stories for the young and foolish and little did Epi know that she stood in the presence of such lush royalty embedded deep in Beqanna's torn history.
E P I T H E T
@[craft]
((this is a dream come true for meee <3<3))