03-29-2016, 12:39 AM
She likes to play around the oak, the only tree that grows straight and true out of the sands. It does give her a spooky feeling because even she knows that the oak should not exist here, not full and thick with life, especially when all the other trees are sparse to begin with, thin and stunted in their barely thriving existence. Even though the oak unnerves her with its unnaturalness, she cannot help but be drawn to it and she spends a lot of time beneath the leafy boughs that seem to defy even nature’s request to change color and fall - the oak always seem green and full of life, as if fit to burst with it and pour some unknown magic that she knows the sands teem with here but she hides from all manner of magic when she is not beneath the oak or running between her mother’s side in search of her father.
Scalped picked him out for her once, pointed her muzzle towards a stallion on the horizon as spotted and as normal as she was. But when Stoney went chasing after him, he turned out to be little more than a mirage by then, a shimmer of shape before the sunset and all she had to tell her that he was real were some hoofprints dimpling the dune’s back. She pressed her teary face into Scalped’s belly that night and cried, cried because she longed to embrace the father she had never known and in return, she longed for him to acknowledge her as his own flesh and blood. It seems like a silly wish for a child to have because she knew her mother loved her but it seemed odd because Scalped never aged, never changed, and Stoney knew there was something off about her mother. Little did she know, that same offness in her mother was in her, but she was blissfully ignorant to such things like immortality.
The bay pintaloosa is happily cavorting by herself, unless you count her shadow as company because she often gives chase to it or lets it chase her across the backs of the dunes until she comes sliding down one side in a shower of sand and laughter. But the oak draws her back time and time again, and she often naps curled up at the base of it as the green leaves rub together in whispering conversation that she falls asleep to. To Stoney, her days are simple and she grows despite this, filling out into the lovely lankiness of her yearling age (and despite the currently lank look of her, she tends towards the promise of plump curvy muscle).
Scalped picked him out for her once, pointed her muzzle towards a stallion on the horizon as spotted and as normal as she was. But when Stoney went chasing after him, he turned out to be little more than a mirage by then, a shimmer of shape before the sunset and all she had to tell her that he was real were some hoofprints dimpling the dune’s back. She pressed her teary face into Scalped’s belly that night and cried, cried because she longed to embrace the father she had never known and in return, she longed for him to acknowledge her as his own flesh and blood. It seems like a silly wish for a child to have because she knew her mother loved her but it seemed odd because Scalped never aged, never changed, and Stoney knew there was something off about her mother. Little did she know, that same offness in her mother was in her, but she was blissfully ignorant to such things like immortality.
The bay pintaloosa is happily cavorting by herself, unless you count her shadow as company because she often gives chase to it or lets it chase her across the backs of the dunes until she comes sliding down one side in a shower of sand and laughter. But the oak draws her back time and time again, and she often naps curled up at the base of it as the green leaves rub together in whispering conversation that she falls asleep to. To Stoney, her days are simple and she grows despite this, filling out into the lovely lankiness of her yearling age (and despite the currently lank look of her, she tends towards the promise of plump curvy muscle).
