02-05-2016, 05:11 AM
And I'll owe it all to you, oh. My little bird.
The world, it is so bright.
Her oyster.
Fuck oysters, they are disgusting anyway.
The world is her own. You only get this chance once, you know. This chance to make something of yourself from a blank slate. This chance to mould yourself in who you want to be; live life how you wish to live it, and do what you wish to do. Someone at birth hands you a sharpie and a piece of paper. Every time you make a stroke, a mark, the sharpie remains. And unless you are some genie who can flick on the white-out, your mark will remain. The paper will become less and less perfect, burdened with wrong turns and mistaken decisions. Sometimes you will want to crumple it up and toss it in the trash, and sometimes you will see something so beautiful that you long to hang it on your wall.
Regardless of this very long and repetitive comparison, Eberley is here with her sharpie and paper. She is ready to draw.
To create.
Her petite frame is sprawled out on hunter green blades of grass surrounded by freshly blooming flowers and weeds. Her stomach rises in a soft rhythm of one and two, so soothing in fact my writing might not be the first thing to lull you to sleep.
A slight flicker of her eye lid signals her small brain is bored of rest. Up her eyelashes flutter to unveil pretty hazel eyes with the slightest hue of blue, like her mother had green eyes and her father had brown, and God gave her hazel to keep her father close but a blue hint to remind her of her mother’s genetics. Unfortunately our little Eberley will ever know who gave her what, because she is here.
Alone.
She lifts her head, feeling groggy and somewhat plump. Her body is vibrating, perhaps chilled from the setting sun. Her stomach is growling, and her throat dryer than even the Desert kingdom.
Watching her rise to her feet is much like watching a drunk man walk down a small flight of stairs. She is completely unorthodox about it, making her way into a standing position in what I can only describe as the most foolish way of all. Clearly, our Eberley will forever be doomed as a hard worker, but not necessarily a smart one.
Trait number one: established.
Her standing position is cinematic. Both front legs—a pretty shade of log brown—stretch out in front of herself. Her hind legs are doing on odd little jig to remain grounded, spread eagled and wobbling. She is huffing and puffing in… anger? exhaustion?—a fierce snort escapes her nose.
Most certainly anger.
By now the fae have noticed her. They sense her frustration radiating from her body, and see the bright snow coloured spots decorating her round hind. A couple giggle, a couple tsk. Either way, they are here for her now.
“I don’t like this,” she states allowed, her voice orotund and thick.
A couple more giggles, a few more tsks.
“If you are going to stand there and judge me, by all means grab yourself a snack. I don’t happen to be struggling here,” more irritation, more anger.
Our little Eberley might as well be a radiating red hot devil at this point.
It is time, they seem to think, to save their newly adopted filly. They are persistent in their assistance, repositioning her legs and fussing over the little things like sticky blades of hair clinging to her soft fluffy coat.
“Alright, alright. I got it.” She doesn’t though, she just hates the attention.
Not a very patient little soul, either.
Trait number two: Established
It took a whole afternoon before the faeries started to feel comfortable leaving her to fend for herself. Of course she is still within hearing distance, but at least they are not spoon feeding her and helping her gain balance. The girl has some independence.
Yes, yes she can explore the entire den all by herself and not one faerie has to tend to her little aid.
Unless, of course, she gets hungry. Lord forbid you let a woman get hungry.
Trait number three: Unfortunately, established
Eberley has found herself most satisfied submerged in the clear water to the north of the grounds. She wades chest deep, her bottom lip flipping the surface in effort to create lasting ripples. When she gets bored of that she moves on to terrorizing the habitat of small fish decorated in pretty fluorescent pinks and blues.
A homewrecker, but the good kind of one.
Trait number four: We are so proud you aren’t the other version.
Her oyster.
Fuck oysters, they are disgusting anyway.
The world is her own. You only get this chance once, you know. This chance to make something of yourself from a blank slate. This chance to mould yourself in who you want to be; live life how you wish to live it, and do what you wish to do. Someone at birth hands you a sharpie and a piece of paper. Every time you make a stroke, a mark, the sharpie remains. And unless you are some genie who can flick on the white-out, your mark will remain. The paper will become less and less perfect, burdened with wrong turns and mistaken decisions. Sometimes you will want to crumple it up and toss it in the trash, and sometimes you will see something so beautiful that you long to hang it on your wall.
Regardless of this very long and repetitive comparison, Eberley is here with her sharpie and paper. She is ready to draw.
To create.
Her petite frame is sprawled out on hunter green blades of grass surrounded by freshly blooming flowers and weeds. Her stomach rises in a soft rhythm of one and two, so soothing in fact my writing might not be the first thing to lull you to sleep.
A slight flicker of her eye lid signals her small brain is bored of rest. Up her eyelashes flutter to unveil pretty hazel eyes with the slightest hue of blue, like her mother had green eyes and her father had brown, and God gave her hazel to keep her father close but a blue hint to remind her of her mother’s genetics. Unfortunately our little Eberley will ever know who gave her what, because she is here.
Alone.
She lifts her head, feeling groggy and somewhat plump. Her body is vibrating, perhaps chilled from the setting sun. Her stomach is growling, and her throat dryer than even the Desert kingdom.
Watching her rise to her feet is much like watching a drunk man walk down a small flight of stairs. She is completely unorthodox about it, making her way into a standing position in what I can only describe as the most foolish way of all. Clearly, our Eberley will forever be doomed as a hard worker, but not necessarily a smart one.
Trait number one: established.
Her standing position is cinematic. Both front legs—a pretty shade of log brown—stretch out in front of herself. Her hind legs are doing on odd little jig to remain grounded, spread eagled and wobbling. She is huffing and puffing in… anger? exhaustion?—a fierce snort escapes her nose.
Most certainly anger.
By now the fae have noticed her. They sense her frustration radiating from her body, and see the bright snow coloured spots decorating her round hind. A couple giggle, a couple tsk. Either way, they are here for her now.
“I don’t like this,” she states allowed, her voice orotund and thick.
A couple more giggles, a few more tsks.
“If you are going to stand there and judge me, by all means grab yourself a snack. I don’t happen to be struggling here,” more irritation, more anger.
Our little Eberley might as well be a radiating red hot devil at this point.
It is time, they seem to think, to save their newly adopted filly. They are persistent in their assistance, repositioning her legs and fussing over the little things like sticky blades of hair clinging to her soft fluffy coat.
“Alright, alright. I got it.” She doesn’t though, she just hates the attention.
Not a very patient little soul, either.
Trait number two: Established
It took a whole afternoon before the faeries started to feel comfortable leaving her to fend for herself. Of course she is still within hearing distance, but at least they are not spoon feeding her and helping her gain balance. The girl has some independence.
Yes, yes she can explore the entire den all by herself and not one faerie has to tend to her little aid.
Unless, of course, she gets hungry. Lord forbid you let a woman get hungry.
Trait number three: Unfortunately, established
Eberley has found herself most satisfied submerged in the clear water to the north of the grounds. She wades chest deep, her bottom lip flipping the surface in effort to create lasting ripples. When she gets bored of that she moves on to terrorizing the habitat of small fish decorated in pretty fluorescent pinks and blues.
A homewrecker, but the good kind of one.
Trait number four: We are so proud you aren’t the other version.