12-04-2015, 10:53 AM
Moss raises her head;
She has been alone for a long time, so long in fact that she cannot remember when something other than cowbirds and the wind has kept her company.
Moss has gone deep into herself; gone back to nature and the inherent silence in themselves.
She snorts her irritation at the cowbird on her back, snaking her head around to nip at the place it sits, riding close to her jutting hip. Winter made her lean; all bones sharp in their jut and flesh spared of fat. Perhaps spending the harshest season in the rough hinterlands had not been a wise choice but she was more wild than tame, unable to be content amongst their laws and strange governance. She kept to her wild ways, going deep into the country untraversed.
Why now then? Because winter is over, and loneliness bites at her with the teeth of a wolf. So she - Moss, robed in pale rough dress of grey overo, eyes soft and brown, steps onto the field.
ooc: sorry it's short but they'll get better! I haven't played her in a long while.
a r z i
He had been treated well throughout the winter - well, as good as he could've been treated. Living alone toughened his skin and his resolve, making the winter just another season that happened to chill his hooves and freeze his breath. He didn't mind the winter, but the spring was a blessing all the same, with the blooms springing up in patches and the tree limbs growing heavy with the weight of buds.
He noticed the jutting edge of her hip before anything else; it curved and dipped so drastically he felt his heart ache for her. He had become leader, definitely, throughout the winter months, but he was large compared to her jagged edges. He approached her, ears perking as her teeth flashed to be rid of a bird, and if had been able he would've laughed at the annoyed squawk it shot back.
He stopped within a few feet of her, noting the dusky gray and white of her hide, and let out a soft nicker of greeting. He didn't feel threatened by her, but it never hurt to be cautious; never did he mean any harm, but with mares, he knew not to assume that they knew it. He nickered again, louder this time, and tossed his head almost playfully, pushing his friendliness.
OOC: No worries! I'm still trying to figure out my writing style for Arzi so we can develop together C:
Moss is not a sleek soft creature; she is as a horse should be - shaped by circumstance, hardened by it even.
She is kind though; it shows in her eyes.
Except to the cowbird that perches further up her back, closer to her neck and out of the way of her gnashing teeth. Even the cowbird isn't minded so much, having become a constant in her life as much as traveling has. She cranes an ear back at the squawk of annoyance from her companion, then both ears tip forward at the sound of footsteps muffled and muddied by grass and snowmelt.
He is vividly marked; that much she can see immediately, bright chestnut mixed with a paint pattern - overo probably, though he stands out even in his large size whereas she does not, small and drab but in a lovely homespun way. She responds to his soft nicker, offering her muzzle in traditional greeting, whuffling once or twice to him. Her eyes are faintly edged in natural wariness, expecting a sudden gnashing of teeth towards her hip or the stallion’s snaking drive towards herd and home - something she has evaded long enough but is not entirely opposed to as she might have been in her strong-willed youth.
She observes his playful overtures for but a moment, unable to truly remember the last time she cavorted freely but supposed it would have occurred with her father and mother in the herdlands. Her lips curve into a shy but inviting smile and the spark of life blazes a little brighter in her; her step becomes prancing as she circles him, pushing at his shoulder in a bold playful nudge.
He can see the kindness in her eyes as he approaches; it isn't every day that he sees a kind face in a mare, and there's something in the way she moves, the way she stands, that is so achingly familiar. His ears prick further at the way she greets him, the way her breath exhales in hello, and the way her eyes flicker tells him that they may have more in common than he thought from the start.
Her coat reminds him of the clouds on a snowy morning, the gray from the clouds and the soft white of the snow, but her eyes are filled with the warmth of a summer's eve. He whuffles back, muzzle extending out to touch hers, nudging it to reassure that his teeth won't come out without a purpose. He doesn't want to hurt her, not when she is so familiar in action and in intent.
His head lifted as she moved, a smile tugging at his lips, a neigh slipping past them at her playful nudge. It was a bold move for a mare, but he found it endearing instead of a threat. He whirled around on his hind legs, in a half-rear, to nudge her neck playfully. She smelled of summer and sunshine, of home and what used to be his herd. He nibbled her withers gently, grooming her as he would his herd, another whicker slipping out.
Moss has gone back to the old original ways; her communication is nonverbal though if she dug deep enough, she could scrounge up words and say them aloud. She was raised on the meat of language but it was the hot simmering broth of silence in between all the words that she preferred.
She waits; he has said nothing yet but she does not think him mute, merely archaic - he was a throwback to a time before talk came to their mouths, and she supposed he was much like her - given to the old ways of throaty vocalizations and subtle telling nuances of flesh and look.
His red maw touches her own gray one in gentle nudging acknowledgment and she breathes deep of his scent, the particular musk that is his alone - woodsy and wandering. He neighs, whirls fast on his legs and rises into a half rear and pushes against her neck; Moss retaliates by skimming her teeth along his crest in a shared grooming motion before nipping lightly at his shoulder. She feels his teeth go to work on her withers and her own lift from the slope of his shoulder back up to his withers where she works on his fur, sometimes grabbing a hank of two-tine mane and tugging playfully.
Moss leans into his side, eerily comfortable, and her head comes to rest in the sway of his back as if it was always meant to. She whuffs into his back, content to stay that way for as long as she can, unable to remember the last time she shared the company of another. Every glance, every whicker between them, every touch was an indulgence she allowed herself thinking it couldn't possibly end.
Her teeth against his neck are relaxing, obvious in their gentle manner that she had no intention of injuring him. His teeth worked gently on her withers and down her back, a throaty whicker slipping past his lips as she tugged at his duel-toned mane; it had been so long since he'd had any companionship like this, had anyone understand his ways, that he couldn't help but feel at home with her.
Her head is cradled in the sway of his back and he sighed, tugging gently at her mane before nuzzling his nose against her shoulder. She filled him with such a sense of protectiveness that he hadn't felt since his herd disbanded, all that time ago; he, by nature, wanted a herd, a slew of offspring, but for now the companionship of one mare was more than enough to satisfy his desires of a companion.
He remembered his other mares as they rested, heads on backs, and let out another sigh. He genuinely missed his family - his herd, yes, but they became the family he had lost when he turned two - but this mare excited the prospect of another. He remembered how when he turned two, his father drove him out, just as feral creatures do. He hadn't had the luxury of a bachelor herd but his solidarity was a strong enough teacher, and he had learned more from his loneliness than he ever had around the other stallions. He had learned how being a gentleman was worth it, he had learned how to fight and to appease, and he had learned how to love without abandon while also respecting the wild instincts that consumed at times.
The cowbird is back; it doesn't stray far though it is wary of the stallion that administers to the painted mare. His teeth chafe the fur in circles, much like her own do to him, and the cowbird hops away to the jut of her hip. Moss doesn't mind the bird, it has been a good companion for quite some time but now the stallion is company enough. In fact, he's the kind of company that she's been missing all this time - she had deluded herself into thinking she could exist comfortably and safely alone, but she is a horse with a herd mentality after all.
She feels him tug on a hank of mane, the action is not bothersome but rather homey. It makes her think of all the times her sire and dam stood like this, heads on each other's backs. Moss is utterly content in these moments with him. She does not think that will come to an end, that it must because life goes on and they can't remain shoulder to shoulder for the rest of their days (however much she'd like to).
The pinto stirs; nips at his shoulder and gives him a questioning look. She wants to know where home is, it can't be this crowded noisy field full of horses. Moss huffs into the pale skin if his neck, delivers a quick teasing nip there and skitters away a few paces as if to say ‘let's go!’
12-21-2015, 03:33 PM
(This post was last modified: 12-21-2015, 03:35 PM by arzi.)
He stirs from his far-off thoughts at her gentle nip, her questioning look. He knows she is asking him where home is, and he does not have a solid answer for her; he resides in the Meadow, mostly, but he has seen the wooded area that runs alongside its boarder and has felt it tug at him, beckoning him to reside there. So he decides, instantaneously, that the wooded land shall be his new herdlands, and he tosses his head as she skitters away. He neighs at her, softly but with a smile in his tone, and rears up slightly, playfully, before tucking his chin and prancing in place in response.
He smells the sudden sweetness to her scent and feels his herding instincts kick in; this is his mare, and no other's, and so he trots to her, nipping her gently on the withers before nudging her with his muzzle to urge her forward. It is time for him to recreate his herd, and he knows it begins with his misty-colored mare that moves beside him. He feels young again, and as they move he tosses his head, letting out a neigh as he transitions into a smooth canter. It is time to return home.
OOC: Want me to create a thread for them in the Forest?
Sure! That sounds good to me, so I'll be awaiting a post in the forest?
Yup! The post is up and ready, whenever you are.
|
