07-23-2017, 04:48 PM
She slips into Beqanna as she slips out of vision - suddenly, and without warning.
Being here, being back, feels unnatural. She is lost even though she knows every path, every stream, every open plain and closed forest. She didn’t mean to end up here (but she did, somewhere deep inside the darkest recesses of her bruised and battered heart, this is where she wanted to be, needed to be) and now she’s back she is uncomfortable, like there is a stone in her hoof or a fly on her back - something niggles at her, and she cannot reach it to stop the itch.
She is uneasy because she should never have left in the first place.
She never went far. No, she is that same naive foal, so embarrassed, so unwilling to step out of the shadows and really be someone. She is just taller, rounder, the angles and edges of her childhood have blended and softened through maturity, turning her from an awkward filly into a quiet mare, plain to look at but for her coat.
She comes to a halt at the edge of the meadow, and she is saddened to see how much smaller it now seems, how much older everything looks. She flickers in and out of existence; she never got control of her invisibility (never wanted to, because she always feared she would make herself invisible and never be seen again, this gentle mare with a cold fist around her gut), and so she watches, a bright beacon of colour flashing amongst the dark trees behind her.
(i don't even know. i need someone to come mess her up. i will probably write her in 18 different styles before i settle. just so you know.)
Being here, being back, feels unnatural. She is lost even though she knows every path, every stream, every open plain and closed forest. She didn’t mean to end up here (but she did, somewhere deep inside the darkest recesses of her bruised and battered heart, this is where she wanted to be, needed to be) and now she’s back she is uncomfortable, like there is a stone in her hoof or a fly on her back - something niggles at her, and she cannot reach it to stop the itch.
She is uneasy because she should never have left in the first place.
She never went far. No, she is that same naive foal, so embarrassed, so unwilling to step out of the shadows and really be someone. She is just taller, rounder, the angles and edges of her childhood have blended and softened through maturity, turning her from an awkward filly into a quiet mare, plain to look at but for her coat.
She comes to a halt at the edge of the meadow, and she is saddened to see how much smaller it now seems, how much older everything looks. She flickers in and out of existence; she never got control of her invisibility (never wanted to, because she always feared she would make herself invisible and never be seen again, this gentle mare with a cold fist around her gut), and so she watches, a bright beacon of colour flashing amongst the dark trees behind her.
(i don't even know. i need someone to come mess her up. i will probably write her in 18 different styles before i settle. just so you know.)
![[Image: n2oih3.png]](http://i64.tinypic.com/n2oih3.png)