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| i crashed my car into the bridge i let it burn; dark | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Apr 30 2014, 12:23 PM (175 Views) | |
| devotchka | Apr 30 2014, 12:23 PM Post #1 |
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WELL SWEET MOTHER TERESA ON THE HOOD OF A MERCEDES BENZ
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TARYN 'when there is no one punishing the evildoers, there is no one giving out prizes for the good ones either ' ______________________________________________________________________________________ one, two, three Finally she can stop running. She knows she appears run down. Much like worms, the dead child inside of her had sucked out all the nutrients. Taryn eats enough to keep herself going and that is all. The bright chestnut coat is dull and staring, not helped by her winter coat thickening and working it’s way in. She is lean and lanky and not in a good way, but if she cared about her appearance, she would have waited before putting herself out on display. However she knows that survival is best in a group, and the grass in the common grounds is not sufficient for an equine for very long. Besides, stallions fall over themselves to find mares. For someone who lives in her head most of the time, the few facts Taryn does know about the outside world are surprisingly accurate. The young mare walks through the homeless, her eyes listless. She moves downwind from a figure and for a moment, she thinks she smells something familiar. Someone from a long time ago, or what felt like it. She shakes her head, chuckling to herself. It is not Vaus. If he came near her again, this time she would kill him. The chestnut watches someone in the distance cross over her path before walking on again. She has a spot by the shoreline where a tree fell a few nights ago where she can position herself like a messenger from Kestrel himself and stallions can flock to her. She was always told she was beautiful, and even now in her sorry state, in her mind Taryn believes that is the truth. We should look at what is on the inside, is her innocent belief when it comes to aesthetics, although whether this is true of all equines is doubtable. Unfortunately if this was the case then what is on the inside of Taryn is just as unpleasant as her exterior in it’s current condition. Leading with her unsocked hoof she steps onto the sand, the wet grit cold against her soles as she traipses down towards her chosen destination. The tree has already taken a beating against the weather and the entrails are starting to be picked apart by various creatures and the elements. Using the vast trunk as a sort of shield against the wind Taryn turns to face her invisible audience, shutting her eyes as the breeze whips her mane round her neck and face. The world is a prettier place when her eyes are closed. Edited by devotchka, Jul 1 2014, 10:19 AM.
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| kimmys | Apr 30 2014, 01:38 PM Post #2 |
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Homeless is still not something Duncan is used to. Seeing mares swarmed by stallions instead of the reverse, as it normally is in herd life, is unusual to him. He feels exposed and on edge, which, he muses as he strides calmly across the Homeless grounds, is probably how many of the mare's feel. Duncan has never before been put in a spot where his talents at smooth talking or lady-wooing will be tested, but he imagines that it can't get much worse than having to pick up the pieces Rowan left behind with the mares he had abandoned. That too, had been extremely awkward for a newly three year old to try and comfort, soothe, and protect a herd of mares much more used to Rowan's brashness than Duncan's more reserved caution. He had never denied that he was more his dam's child than his fathers. Much more likely to take in the derelicts, left overs, and the like than to draw in mares hungry for a taste of power. In fact, Duncan is not sure if he can remember his father ever taking a trip to the homeless grounds. Mares just came to him on their own, like Daire. Duncan regrets none of this, however. Rowan and his family and his allies may once have been powerful, but that sort of life, of constantly having to look around corners for the next threat and to analyze every snippet of a conversation for underlying meaning, was not his kind of life. The overo simply hoped for a quiet home life, with mares that at least tolerated each other and maybe in a few years, a few children of his own. This, he understood, would take time and would not be a necessarily smooth road. Nothing in life ever was, so he was in no hurry. He did not come here expecting to take a mare home, only to test the waters for what could be. His hooves still as he searches for a mare on her own, not necessarily wanting to charge into a gathering well under way. A red mare, thin to the point of seeming unhealthy, stalks purposefully across the open space in front of him toward a lone tree. He watches for a moment, drawn to her purpose and drive before pacing after her, blue eyes observant when she finally still, turns, and faces the empty space before her with resolutely closed eyes. A flash of absurd amusement curls the edges of his lips as he continues walking, but it stills and fades as he stops before her. "Excuse me, but am I interrupting something?" He asks softly, a unique cadence to his speech as he halts a few feet away, black rimmed ears pricked toward the red mare. |
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9:15 AM Jul 11