Blood of the Rose - any - Osiria - 07-13-2015
The girl stands upon the crest of the hill. Her limbs, once as white as driven snow, were now dirt and dust stained like weary, blanched bones uncovered by an errant wind. She blinks slowly, and the gleam in her midnight black eyes show that her limbs are not as age weary as they may seem. Beneath that dirtied white, beats blood so young and restless.
The wind blows more soiled specks of dust against her limbs and casts the sheet of tangled white and red mane across her eyes. Lids white, and lashes stained red like she bored the flecks of blood from a foe, flutter shut against her slender cheek once more. Slowly they reopen and that glimmer is stronger, now it reveals a feral gleam. Oh no, do not believe this girl is violent, despite her pallid skin and blood stained torso. She may stand upon the crest of a hill like a beautiful apparition in white; the sin of blood pooled and dappled across her slender frame as ominous as it is beautiful… but Osiria’s heart is believed pure even in its errant ways…
Slowly those slender limbs begin to move and she drifts as lightly as a ghost down the hillside. Grasses rub the dust from her shins and her knees and tangle in her white and red tail. Dusk grey nostrils flare as she drinks the new unchartered air. She recognizes none of the scents that surround her; maybe it should whisper warning into the fluttering of her heart but it does nothing but inject delight into her gut. Her stomach churns and her skin shivers, fasciculations rippling across her muscles with her electric delight.
As the sun slips beneath the sky bleeding burnt oranges, bruised pinks and angry reds into the sky, the dawn awakens in Osiria’s tale. Amidst the crowds she stands, the dirtied wanderer, mysterious in her presence, joyful in her surroundings and darkening in her soul.
-x- O S I R I A -x-
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RE: Blood of the Rose - any - Weir - 07-13-2015
Weir found himself frequenting the field quite often these days. It was a rather slow process, recruiting more subjects for the Dale, but he stuck to it nonetheless. Though he did not realize, he was perhaps what had made it such a difficult process. Weir knew a great many things, and thus he shared a great many things with others. Even complete strangers. Including when he was supposed to be offering them a home, and not filling their heads with information they were not like to retain.
As is true Weir fashion he makes his way across the field in a slow sightseeing saunter, the summer sun warm and welcome on his back. His amber eyes gaze about lazily almost, taking in many aspects of the terrain and not just the equine themselves. Narrowing in on obscure things. A shiny bit of rock, a striped caterpillar, until finally they find their way back to peeping the field.
He soon spots another new comer, a red and white splashed female, standing alone. Surely she would be needing a place to stay, as most who came here did, and lucky for him he was there to invite her. He is gentle in his approach, his roan pelt already collecting moisture from the heat, but he doesn't seem to mind. His chestnut banner flicks itself, swatting at the incessant buzzing of gnats, the pests retreating for only moments.
He clears his throat before speaking, a gentle erhhm erhhm erhhm, "Hello miss, I am Weir from the Dale. How are you this lovely afternoon?" He had learned from his past attempts, and thought he might start her off slow. Taking time to give his name and engage her in conversation, he gave her a small but polite smile. At least he would try to not overwhelm her right off the bat, but he couldn't make any promises that the conversation wouldn't stray.
Eclectic Vagabond of the Dale
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