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Post by incipher on Dec 3, 2011 23:09:06 GMT -5
Alone again, Fivel wandered aimlessly through the wood, picking careful, precarious steps in between trees and their troublesome roots. His hopes were barren, empty of possibility; a familiar and near-typical state expressed through a drooping head and burdened shoulders. The wanderlust was vacant, a froth of desire run dry in the bland russet pit of his eyes. Fivel exhibited the properties of a creature caged in solitude, his seclusion a full-body manacle that slowly, but surely ebbed at the beauty of his spirit - yet here, he caught himself in a suspended breath and poised, deer-like and effortless. The crackle and snap of a twig left the stallion motionless and wide-eyed, his memories recalling the recent encounter with some unfriendly and considerably feisty canines. They had preferred talking with their teeth more than their tongues, a predicament which would have terrified Morgan even, had the long lost sire been in his son's shoes instead. Of course, he had not suffered the endeavor by himself, which was where his sorrows were overwhelmingly austere.
Phoebe. He had lost Phoebe.
It didn't seem fair that an epithet of the moon could come and go as she pleased like that, disappearing into a water-y otherworld in which Fivel could not follow. And despite the blame he housed within the cocoon of his skeleton and pulsating veins, Fivel wanted to believe that, maybe, she had planned to leave him from the beginning. They were only part-time friends and, if he had to be honest, Fivel couldn't even remember what they had talked about before being forced to part ways. He only remembered the eloquence of her spotted face, the dreamy aura of her distilled gaze - the quiet and serene method she had of producing his name, of making him feel miraculously wanted, but still unwanted, in the same exasperating breath. Phoebe. She was a phantasm cast in sunbeam and freckles, and yet the afternoon light did not expose her hiding place, provided no hint. No hope. She was a drifting specter. She was lost.
Phoebe, his friend.
Gone.
But for his sake more than hers, he would not stop looking, and continued on his way.
* brief, but finito - for Remmy! (:
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Post by Hud on Dec 6, 2011 23:37:16 GMT -5
It seemed that venturing into the Calcryx area had not been such an abominable idea after all. Rembrandt was meeting others he never would've seen had he stayed locked up in his swamp as per usual. He tried not to admit it, but deep down he knew it was the right thing to do for his herd. Expand his horizons.
He found himself at Daoud Lake again, grimacing at the clear waters with subtle disgust. He could see the fish that lurked beneath the surface... It just didn't seem right. Turning his large, cream-colored frame away from the watery scene, Remy was before a large grove of Calcryx trees just waiting to be explored; inwardly he could only hope by someone else, but he knew his responsibilities. No doubt there were more equines roaming his woods and nothing excited him more than meeting each and every one of them.
The stallion pulled back into a hearty rear and let out a deep, low whinny before taking off into the trees. He bounded logs and avoided branches gracefully as he cantered through the foliage, eager to spot someone - anyone. He soon passed something that needed a second glance. It seemed to at first be some sort of yellow blur. Yellow blurs were not uncommon in a forest at this time of year, but there had been the glow of something more than just leaves on a tree. Turning back to look again, he made out the form of a stranger – a stallion. It sure had been a while since he’d come across one of his own sex. The prospect of meeting this new guy excited Remy and he could hardly contain himself as he backtracked a little bit to go and meet him.
Trotting toward the stallion, Remy lifted his hooves high with excitement and grinned as he got closer.
“All-o suh! Awlmos’ din’t see yuh all de way bag ‘ere!” he said quickly and with as much throat as he usually used when speaking. It was a different muscle than most used when they spoke. His orange mane danced a little as his frame went up and down, settling when Remy reached a polite distance from the stranger.
OOC: SORRY FOR LE WAIT. D:
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