01-01-2016, 03:08 PM
it's strange what desire will make foolish people do.
So young and so alone, it is no wonder that within minutes she is approached. In a place like this, a single foal will attract horses quickly, whether their intentions are good or bad. She appears to be a blank slate (when she appears at all), so ready to be moulded into something brilliant or something broken - but she would refuse to believe so, for she thinks all ideas are hers and she will never be changed by anything other than her own mind. Ah, the foolishness of youth.
The one that approaches is not what the filly expects. He doesn’t look the sort to be interested in a child - one day she may realise there is a whole group of individuals specifically interested in children. She was expecting a young mare or two, coming over to fuss her and feed her and fantasise about taking her under their metaphorical wings to raise her as their own. This one, he has a real wing, dragging through the ground, and a limp, and horns and golden fur and a glint in his eye that she cannot yet understand.
He is a broken and battered stallion, but he radiates something that she wants, though she doesn’t yet know she wants it; power.
She pushes herself up from the grass, still flickering, threatening to go out like a candle flame. But as she concentrates on this stranger, she becomes more visible, red on green on a body that trembles with naive defiance.
Then he speaks, and she trembles with something else.
She doesn’t know what it is, but she finds herself tucking her ears back, her tail between her legs, rounding her spine and sitting back on her hocks, ready to run, to sprint straight back to her mother’s side. But she forces herself to stay still, to not give in to her instincts.
She wants to reply with a bite in her words, but it takes everything she has to stop her voice from shaking. She wants to give him a withering glare that, even from a newborn filly, would make him second-guess her, but she struggles to look him in the eyes. She wants to straighten up, to make herself as tall as possible, but her body won’t obey her.
“This place-” she squeaks, and she flits out of sight again, embarrassed but trying so hard not to be. When she speaks again, the invisibility slips off, and she is back. “This place is safe for me. I was told,” which is true, in a way, but she wasn’t told, she overheard (eavesdropped) and despite the bravado she is so desperate to radiate she wanted to go somewhere safe.
Part of her wants to ask him about his wing, his limp, but she is still shaking slightly, and making him mad is probably not in her best interests.
The one that approaches is not what the filly expects. He doesn’t look the sort to be interested in a child - one day she may realise there is a whole group of individuals specifically interested in children. She was expecting a young mare or two, coming over to fuss her and feed her and fantasise about taking her under their metaphorical wings to raise her as their own. This one, he has a real wing, dragging through the ground, and a limp, and horns and golden fur and a glint in his eye that she cannot yet understand.
He is a broken and battered stallion, but he radiates something that she wants, though she doesn’t yet know she wants it; power.
She pushes herself up from the grass, still flickering, threatening to go out like a candle flame. But as she concentrates on this stranger, she becomes more visible, red on green on a body that trembles with naive defiance.
Then he speaks, and she trembles with something else.
She doesn’t know what it is, but she finds herself tucking her ears back, her tail between her legs, rounding her spine and sitting back on her hocks, ready to run, to sprint straight back to her mother’s side. But she forces herself to stay still, to not give in to her instincts.
She wants to reply with a bite in her words, but it takes everything she has to stop her voice from shaking. She wants to give him a withering glare that, even from a newborn filly, would make him second-guess her, but she struggles to look him in the eyes. She wants to straighten up, to make herself as tall as possible, but her body won’t obey her.
“This place-” she squeaks, and she flits out of sight again, embarrassed but trying so hard not to be. When she speaks again, the invisibility slips off, and she is back. “This place is safe for me. I was told,” which is true, in a way, but she wasn’t told, she overheard (eavesdropped) and despite the bravado she is so desperate to radiate she wanted to go somewhere safe.
Part of her wants to ask him about his wing, his limp, but she is still shaking slightly, and making him mad is probably not in her best interests.
ELVE
![[Image: n2oih3.png]](http://i64.tinypic.com/n2oih3.png)