07-11-2016, 04:10 PM
i don't love you;
but i always will.
When did the Jungle become the more common Forest?
It had started out innocently enough; trying to discover just how deep into the Jungle the trail led only for the pain mare to suddenly stop and look around herself. These were not the same trees she had originally started off in, these were younger and not as tall, and the land here was more gray than green as if the shadows and the moss dwelled here more than Nature herself. She snorts, surprised at how deep in thought she had slipped to not have noticed the way the land shifted from one to the next.
As of late, all her forays outside the Jungle have been only to the Field in search of those displaying enough brains, brawn, and worth - all things the sisterhood needed. So to find herself here now, it is strange and her skin crawls from the way it seems much colder than back in the Jungle. Her thoughts had stolen her away more than anything else, and allowed her feet to become misguided in their trek. No matter, she’ll just turn around and go back the same way she can but she feels an odd pull towards the Forest, though it should have no bearing upon her hateful little soul.
She snorts, why is it so damn foggy here? It just is, she supposes, eyeing the thick soupy fog that swamps the Forest and sticks to her skin making her damp and even uglier. Such a scrawny thing was never meant to be thought of as beautiful and never would be, and Riva had no qualms with that - it allowed her to pass more freely through life, very spare and lean in look and manner. Except he’d taken a strange shine to her, and she (reluctance clouds her admittance of this, even to herself) to him as it seems to be, and all of a sudden her head picks up and her hawkish eyes narrow in on the fog. Riva smells him, and thinks of slipping away quickly with the fog as her cover but as she turns, she snaps a twig in half with her foot and freezes. Damn! He will certainly have heard that, she snarls inwardly at herself for such carelessness.
The bay tovero breaks from the fog; her head is held high in pure perfected haughtiness as she looks him over (still brawny, still scarred, still black and blue like a bruise that sits on her heart, a stain of feeling that she cannot shake no matter how hard she tries to) and says in exasperation so fake it is obnoxiously believable, “You.”
Riva