09-24-2018, 10:44 AM
<link href="https://fonts.googleapis.com/css?family=Vollkorn" rel="stylesheet"><center><div style="width:450px; background:#eef2f3; padding:40px;border:3px;"><font face="Vollkorn" color="black" size="2px"><i>This song that I have made to tell of you,
"Made out of a mouthful of air,"
Who but I will ever sing it,
Who will know who made it,
Or for whom it was made?</i><br/>- - - -
This isn't the sort of thing she usually does.
But this world has changed while she was not looking, and she knows that she must change too- something within her is far too stubborn to be lost to time. She does not want to be just a small forgotten part of history, a name in a very, very long list of names. Not while she's still alive.
So with a sigh that whistles through gritted teeth, the mare prepares herself.
North is clever, not creative. She'll solve a riddle in no time and debate you until you cry, but deciding what costume to make, much less making it??... she hasn't the faintest idea of where to start. But the silver bay is also no good at being idle, so she begins by bathing in the river near where it meets the sea.
As she steps into the cool water, she ponders what costume to wear, and how to make it. The problem, in conjunction with the aforementioned lack of creativity, is that North has never been afraid of tangible things. She can't exactly dress up as unrequited love, being alone, or fire. Well maybe fire, but then we come back to the creativity problem. She splashes in the river and watches the mud float lazily downstream into the ocean with a small frown.
Eventually her eyes come to rest on the gentle ocean waves, and that is when the memories start to trickle back. The ocean... North has always been drawn to it. She has always adored questions with no answers, and the sea, to her, is the ultimate mystery. Her mother used to tell her stories to scare her away from it, tales of kelpies and sirens and monsters that had the unintended effect of piquing her boundless curiosity. <i>This</i> is the costume she will dawn, something not at all scary for her but surely for <i>someone</i>- why else would her mother think these stories would have the intended effect?
North begins. She drapes long strings of seaweed over herself, layer by layer, until her warm brown coat is all but covered in green. She combs the beach for accessories. Sand dollars, sea shells, the bones of starfish, all are carefully woven into mane and tail. And pearls.
Oh, of course there are pearls.
She starts in the morning and does not feel finished until the sun begins to fall. As the day draws to an end, she feels... well, absolutely ridiculous. Her mane and tail are heavy and gleaming with what one could impolitely call sea trash. Every few steps something falls from her outfit- usually a pearl, as there are hundreds of them halfheartedly balanced in her thick creamy-white hair. And that damned seaweed strewn across her back. It smells horrible, attracts all manner of sand flies, and trails behind her like a grotesque wedding dress. She feels like an abomination, but supposes that is the point of this all anyway.
Now comes the fun part. She really hadn't spent much time thinking about where to look for this hollow pumpkin with holes in it. North is no longer familiar with this land, so her options are limited. There are only a few places that have remained the same for as long as she's known Beqanna: the field, the meadow, and the beach. The answer seems obvious to her. The beach is where men come to die. If there is a creepier place in Beqanna, she does not need to ever go there. And anyway, where else would a sea monster be found?
She sashays down the coast (any movement other than <i>sashaying</i> is rendered impossible by her seaweed train) until she hears the <i>crack</i> of bone underfoot.
Her sharp grin glows in the twilight, veiled in pearls. She has arrived.
North is blessed with a pragmatic view of most things, including death. As much as she'd rather <i>not</i> be here, it does not bother her to step on someone's dead father, son, lover, etc. As she walks, peering under dead bodies for that damn pumpkin, she thinks absent-mindedly of her own dead friends and lovers. "<b>Is that you Artemus?</b>" She mutters drily to a skull half-buried in the sand. It seems to smile at her under the rising moon's light. "<b>If you could see me now. Dressed in fucking seaweed.</b>" Her tone is deadpan, but she finds herself grinning, and then before she knows it she is giggling, then outright laughing. Belly-aching, teary-eyed laughter.
And just like that, the joke doesn't seem funny anymore. When the sound of her laughter fades she begins to feel unwelcome here, in this hallowed ground. "<i>I'd kill to have you here</i>," she admits to herself, to his ghost, and then she places a single hoof on the mocking skull and she steps down gently until it is buried in the sand.
Personal business taken care of, she continues on the search. She is methodical, as is her nature, sweeping across the beach parallel to the ocean and slowly working her way from the water's edge inland.
As she walks, she begins to hum a soft, haunting tune. Soon, when the night draws even darker, she will put words to it.
She has not forgotten about the tricks and treats.
- - - - -
<font size="5px">N O R T H</font>
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"Made out of a mouthful of air,"
Who but I will ever sing it,
Who will know who made it,
Or for whom it was made?</i><br/>- - - -
This isn't the sort of thing she usually does.
But this world has changed while she was not looking, and she knows that she must change too- something within her is far too stubborn to be lost to time. She does not want to be just a small forgotten part of history, a name in a very, very long list of names. Not while she's still alive.
So with a sigh that whistles through gritted teeth, the mare prepares herself.
North is clever, not creative. She'll solve a riddle in no time and debate you until you cry, but deciding what costume to make, much less making it??... she hasn't the faintest idea of where to start. But the silver bay is also no good at being idle, so she begins by bathing in the river near where it meets the sea.
As she steps into the cool water, she ponders what costume to wear, and how to make it. The problem, in conjunction with the aforementioned lack of creativity, is that North has never been afraid of tangible things. She can't exactly dress up as unrequited love, being alone, or fire. Well maybe fire, but then we come back to the creativity problem. She splashes in the river and watches the mud float lazily downstream into the ocean with a small frown.
Eventually her eyes come to rest on the gentle ocean waves, and that is when the memories start to trickle back. The ocean... North has always been drawn to it. She has always adored questions with no answers, and the sea, to her, is the ultimate mystery. Her mother used to tell her stories to scare her away from it, tales of kelpies and sirens and monsters that had the unintended effect of piquing her boundless curiosity. <i>This</i> is the costume she will dawn, something not at all scary for her but surely for <i>someone</i>- why else would her mother think these stories would have the intended effect?
North begins. She drapes long strings of seaweed over herself, layer by layer, until her warm brown coat is all but covered in green. She combs the beach for accessories. Sand dollars, sea shells, the bones of starfish, all are carefully woven into mane and tail. And pearls.
Oh, of course there are pearls.
She starts in the morning and does not feel finished until the sun begins to fall. As the day draws to an end, she feels... well, absolutely ridiculous. Her mane and tail are heavy and gleaming with what one could impolitely call sea trash. Every few steps something falls from her outfit- usually a pearl, as there are hundreds of them halfheartedly balanced in her thick creamy-white hair. And that damned seaweed strewn across her back. It smells horrible, attracts all manner of sand flies, and trails behind her like a grotesque wedding dress. She feels like an abomination, but supposes that is the point of this all anyway.
Now comes the fun part. She really hadn't spent much time thinking about where to look for this hollow pumpkin with holes in it. North is no longer familiar with this land, so her options are limited. There are only a few places that have remained the same for as long as she's known Beqanna: the field, the meadow, and the beach. The answer seems obvious to her. The beach is where men come to die. If there is a creepier place in Beqanna, she does not need to ever go there. And anyway, where else would a sea monster be found?
She sashays down the coast (any movement other than <i>sashaying</i> is rendered impossible by her seaweed train) until she hears the <i>crack</i> of bone underfoot.
Her sharp grin glows in the twilight, veiled in pearls. She has arrived.
North is blessed with a pragmatic view of most things, including death. As much as she'd rather <i>not</i> be here, it does not bother her to step on someone's dead father, son, lover, etc. As she walks, peering under dead bodies for that damn pumpkin, she thinks absent-mindedly of her own dead friends and lovers. "<b>Is that you Artemus?</b>" She mutters drily to a skull half-buried in the sand. It seems to smile at her under the rising moon's light. "<b>If you could see me now. Dressed in fucking seaweed.</b>" Her tone is deadpan, but she finds herself grinning, and then before she knows it she is giggling, then outright laughing. Belly-aching, teary-eyed laughter.
And just like that, the joke doesn't seem funny anymore. When the sound of her laughter fades she begins to feel unwelcome here, in this hallowed ground. "<i>I'd kill to have you here</i>," she admits to herself, to his ghost, and then she places a single hoof on the mocking skull and she steps down gently until it is buried in the sand.
Personal business taken care of, she continues on the search. She is methodical, as is her nature, sweeping across the beach parallel to the ocean and slowly working her way from the water's edge inland.
As she walks, she begins to hum a soft, haunting tune. Soon, when the night draws even darker, she will put words to it.
She has not forgotten about the tricks and treats.
- - - - -
<font size="5px">N O R T H</font>
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