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Post by .cay on May 21, 2011 16:21:40 GMT -7
-eternally called-
Always Forever Samning
-goes commonly by-
Re [] Amnor
-has suffered for-
8 winters
-takes form as a-
Horse
-harshly dyed-
Skewbald
-built and formed by gods-
Re has a very lithe body. His long, slender pillars carry a sturdy yet slim patched bodice. Long patches of russet fuse with ivory while they clash with a heavily ebonite banner and whipcord. Long, unclipped fronds fall against patches and stand out like night and day. A strength worthy of his Vanner heritage is masked by his supremely overwhelming Arabian lines. A slender profile is all that this duke is, but undersetimate the strength in those muscles and you're in deep trouble. Long, ebony tipped harks top a dished crown splashed with russet. Deep violet pools shine behind a mask of russet peltage. Along his poles fall feathers, once again bringing out his rocky heritage, and along the bottom run small but sharp daggers. Standing at 15.8hh, he is a commanding figure, filled with strength and a firey Arabian passion.
-has the blood of a-
Arabian, Gypsey Vanner cross
-forced to be a-
Stallion
-turns with loyalty to-
The Darks
-thinks and acts-
A passionate dark, this knight is very secretive. He holds many things near to him, and regrets any thoughts, memories, feelings shared. He can, and most likely will be very harsh. Tending to judge too soon, see too late, and regret always. Not many horses can get close to a soldier like him. Rude too, he will taunt and insult until he is blue in the face. Mares mean nothing to him; they always try to get close but abruptly meet a brick wall. His feelings are like him; cold and closed off, never giving anyone a second glance. If, if someone gets close to him, he tends to get anxious and nervy, sometimes flaming up at them or leaving them altogether. He's not a very stable brute, but his pride is more solid than a rock. I guess you could describe Re like that; a rock. Cold, hard, unresponsive and out of reach.
-has been through-
Cold rain pounded on the walls. A quiet bout of coughing could be heard if you listened very carefully. Near the front of a cave stood a gangly colt, shivering in spite of his proud stance. A drop of rain dyed his muzzle deeper russet, and he sneezed. The small colt then backed up, tripping over a very sickly looking mare. Her orbs were runny, her body was stick thin and flies dotted her frail bodice. The colt recoiled in partly pity but mainly disgust, retreating further into the ill laden cavern. His hooves made an unnatural clicking sound against the cold marble, and the lad stopped, horror-struck by the sight in front of him.
Thunder clapped and shook awake the yearling, startling the skewbald out of a nervous doze. Sleep lined his crystals and hunger made his bodice lean. This was a yearling who was having troubles, deep troubles. He wasn't lean; he was emaciated. He wasn't dozey from a recent sleep; he was worn from near insomnia. The poor thing got up unsteadily and tested his lithe pillars. The poles were sturdy enough apparently, for he shot forwards, the cooling rain easing his aching body. Another clap of thunder spurred the young buck faster, pushing his broken bodice to the limits. He would have to stop again soon...
A young stallion grazed on a small field, his deep violet orbs darting around nervously. His lithe body shifted and the brute looked up, expectant. But alas; there was nothing to confirm his suspicions. He sighed; loneliness was not only cherished for him; it was always. Eyes flickered and a film began to roll in the dukes head. He saw a young skewbald colt, playing alongside a lithe chestnut arabian. Her peltage shone in the winter sun, firey as her lineage. A proud Gypsey Vanner grazed nearby, watching the two with amused orbs. Suddenly; the vision was gone, and the colt was alone in a graveyard of illness, alone and weary.
-a prelude to-
A quiet night held a quiet visitor. His markings were unknown in the pale mooncast, but his stance was quite informative. Re shifted slightly, staring sideways into crashing waves. The young soldier blinked, silently wishing that night would be his saviour and slay him here, here among the waters of eternity. But, alas, he was alone in his quest, not a single warrior of darkness to ease his plea. Why must I digress from my troubles? It was worth nothing to keep there, you were correct in your findings. But still, a part of me wonders... The stag snorted, throwing back his head violently. No! I am true here, not in the past. Calming down, the painted brute walked slowly into the thrashing waters. Furious spray shot at him like bullets, but the duke seemed to not notice it. Re, my dear, you are truly wayward, but you can find your way back. He stopped in the white washed waters, looking down. A laugh soon started, feeble at first but at only a minutes notice became full throated. Re was Re, he knew that very well. Re was, and would always be, astray from any point.
Re stepped forward solemnly, snorting softly in the midnights faint oils. The distant sound of a mockingbird brought the night into clear focus, but its' beauty was overlooked by the sturdy brute. At least, he looked sturdy. And perhaps he was... Physically. The skewbalded knight brushed past dying shrubs and onwards into the fell turf. Dust crackled beneath ebonite daggers and twisted as he stepped on, oblivious to most and all around him. Soft harks hung uselessly at his crown, splashed with a beauty of russet no one could love. Because he wouldn't let them near enough to see his true self, his true soul. 'But that was okay,' the duke reminded himself gently. 'I don't need anyone really, anyways.' Blowing out in frigid air, the soldier stopped, feeling frost creep up his poles and into his bones. 'I could die here,' pondered the skewbald. 'No one would care. But that would leave so many things untouched.'
Pools of amethyst blinked slowly in the cursed winds, their gusts tearing at the dukes coat like greedy fingers reaching for a sticky sweet-cake, harsh and unrelenting until time took its' course. The slim knight shifted his stance, glaring forward until his crystals seemed to writhe in agony, begging softly for the relief that blinking would bring them. Re twisted his neck slightly, moving the dished profile this way and that, easing the kinks that time had brought with it. The mind toyed with this soldier, teasing here, prodding there, and overall just provoking something out of the stag. But his soul was locked away, untouched in his mind and enclosed by a barrier none, even he, could break.
The weary hours seemed to drag on, lashing at muscles and ripping at focus, until Re could no longer stand carelessly in the blistering heat, enduring the torture that seemed to calm the restless brute. One lithe pole turned, easing the bodice towards the nearest shade; a large dune that seemed to loom over the skewbald like an ominous storm cloud. 'But this is no storm cloud, Re, it is a sand dune. And the sand dune is never going to stop being a sand dune, so you might as well accept it as a sand dune.' Snorting in furious contempt, Re shot forward, snapping his muscles into action after hours of nothing. He could feel his tendons stretching, tearing slightly at the sudden malevolence of their creature. Smiling viciously, the brute pulled a sudden hockey-stop beside the bloodied dune and felt sand wash over him and over the dune, his sudden disturbance terrifying to the drunken snake, who twisted away in fear, hissing softly at the male as it crawled past. Screaming, the stag leapt after the creature, landing heavily onto the agonized cold-blood. Silence followed a last pained hiss, and Re stepped away, shrugging as if nothing happened. The devil made his way back to the dune and stood musing under its' peak. |
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