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| just stay away from the white light !; ;; requiem | |
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| Tweet Topic Started: Jun 20 2014, 09:15 PM (323 Views) | |
| `d e p p | Jun 20 2014, 09:15 PM Post #1 |
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I think everybody's nuts.
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PLEASE NOTE: This is really a trial topic, as I'm considering adopting Requiem. She may or may not actually choose a stallion by the end of this; really depends on if I like rping her/like the stallions provided x]![]() source. __________________________________________________________________________________ R E Q U I E M Ashes of roses, ashes of roses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Thin velvet nostrils flutter as the mare releases a snort, the intense black of her eyes framed by the hazy plume as it writhes through the wintry breeze. She is a beautiful creature, even with the mild disgust wrinkling the bridge of her nose as she looks down at the desperation. Requiem refuses to believe that she is one of them, those helpless damsels that cry out so dreadfully. She has come here for more, leaving behind the mother and daughter that have only leeched her opportunity, leaving her restless and frustrated. At one time, the spotted stallion had seemed a proving prospect, and then the old Friesian in her own quest, but they have each left the mare with nothing. She glowers now, moving forward with all of the grace and elegance of her Friesian heritage. The long tresses of her wavy mane and tail cascade about her slender figure, threaded with the soft falling of snowflakes that catch her thick locks. Though not a maiden mare, her body is in its prime and well recovered from the birth of her daughter, filled out in every way with divine curves. Her elegant neck arched, Requiem picks her way through the forest that gradually thins until it releases her completely. She turns her nose up at the milling mass, not interested in their petty conversations. Lingering at their edge, she keeps moving, her feathered hooves cutting easily through the snow-coated ground. Finally, she settles on a somewhat open stretch of land, the flat terrain marked only by the occasional tree or patch of shrubbery that manages to protrude from the powdery blanket. Her dark form is soon encased by the seeping branches of a large willow tree, stripped of its leaves by the cold season, instead harboring a nest of icicles and snowflakes in its sweeping boughs. Requiem casts a short glance upward before she settles at the branches’ edge, truly a sight with the weeping limbs caressing her dark elegant figure. For a moment she waits, as if expecting all of the greedy mongrels to emerge at once. Not having visited these notorious borders before, she is sure the game is played far deeper than what rumor would tell. She could call for them, she supposes, but that would be a waste—no need to be inviting unneeded attention. After all, she is sure that she will have no problem drawing forth from the darkness the ones worth her time, the ones who can give her what she wants. A fleeting wry grin coils her velvet black lips. It shouldn’t be long now. Her thick wavy tail curls around her feathered hocks as she waits, dark eyes intent and ready. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘Pretty pink roses bleached by the moon to ashes — ASHES OF ROSES, ASHES OF ROSES.’ friesian hybrid mare . caedes x exodus . eight years old . black with black eyes . dark . 15hh |
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| devotchka | Jun 22 2014, 11:51 AM Post #2 |
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WELL SWEET MOTHER TERESA ON THE HOOD OF A MERCEDES BENZ
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WASP ' if i had a heart i could love you, if i had a voice i would sing ' ______________________________________________________________________________________ There is something intriguing about this place. Wasp almost enjoys the overwhelming attack on the senses, the way different scents are intertwined and create an invisible code. It is something for him to untangle and make sense of – a desire he inherits from his mother. It is at it’s lowest in Winter, and the young stallion can detect this, even though he has only had two seasons at this game. It is not surprising he has not picked up any mares in this short space of time, besides, he hasn’t really been trying hard. He ventured here a few weeks ago, but still being inexperienced and although he would hate to admit it, paranoid, that someone may steal his rather nice home, went back to check up on things. As predicted, only snow had stolen the stony façade from him, and the Warmblood hybrid finds himself back in the common grounds once more. This time he hopes it will be more successful. His body twists, wraithlike, through the snowdrifts, his grulla coat stark against the alabaster scenery. He enjoys winter, he thrives in the cold, and any equine who is unable to do so is a waste of his time. There were not many fillies in Lothan’s herd, and with only his younger sister to compare to, he finds the choice of mares so far to be satisfying. The land beyond opens up into a plain, and the young stallion hesitates, wary of this new landscape. He is used to mountains and screes, and although he does not feel at home in the trees, this flat expanse is alien. Still, it looks empty, save for the tracks a few hundred yards away. Wasp steals towards them at a trot, his brawny shoulders bunched as his neck swings low to the ground, picking up any smell that the snow has not managed to hide. It is of a mare, and with this new information processing in his mind, he glances back out to the plain. Chances are, she is out there. After deciding that she definitely went in the direction he thought she might have done, her tracks confirming so, Wasp sets out after his prey. He leaps into a canter, his athletic body powering through the dead landscape, occasionally sliding on the ice underfoot but three years of living on a treacherous mountainside has all but cured any clumsiness out of him. If you stumble in his home, you die. He can see her form, a voluptuous ebony figure hugging the spiny fingers of a willow tree and he drops down to a trot, his head held high and nostrils wide, drinking in her scent. It may not be the right season, but Wasp can still appreciate her beauty. His tail flicks round his hindquarters, more for effect than use. She looks exotic, but powerful, and he instantly likes her. He cannot afford to bring stupidity into his herd, no matter how pretty it looks. He snorts to her, slowing down as to not collide with her and observes her from a standing point. She is about a hand shorter than him, though he recognises that triumphant look in her eyes. ‘Greetings.’ He says, his voice ringing out. ‘Quite a spot you’ve chosen here.’ He follows, his voice suggesting he is amused, yet his face does not show it. He looks upon these conversations more as a test for her, rather than a competition between him and any other suitors. ‘My name is Wasp.’ He says after a brief pause, his ears swivelling behind him to check if anything approaches, before he focuses all his attention onto her. ‘And am I allowed to know yours?’ theme xx image Edited by devotchka, Jun 22 2014, 12:14 PM.
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| `d e p p | Jun 23 2014, 09:42 PM Post #3 |
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I think everybody's nuts.
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![]() source. _________________________________________________________________________________ R E Q U I E M Ashes of roses, ashes of roses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . There is a strange bleakness about this place, and it weighs heavily against the mare’s proud body. The thick length of her wavy tail flicks around her feathered hocks, tinkling against the frozen tendrils of the willow’s boughs. The desperation, the insecurity, the solitude—it is not her. The thin skin around her nostrils flare as she searches, eager for the games to be played. Thankfully, she isn’t kept waiting for much longer. Her keen black eyes pick out the stallion from the distance, his dark form pulling him out against the pallid landscape just as much as her own. Silently she watches him approach, his large bounds carrying him easily through the thick snow, surging forward with a powerful grace that continues into the fluidity of his short halt. Requiem holds her elegant head high, meeting his gaze confidently with a dark smirk shadowing her velvet lips in a wordless greeting. Welcome to my lair, her eyes seem to say, taunting and intent. Fluted ears prick mildly forward as the grulla stallions speaks, though Requiem allows her expression to do the talking for now. It is only menial conversation that he offers initially, and she has no interest in wasting her breath. Besides, the ebony vixen is not often a particularly loud individual, preferring to study her quarry in the few moments that pass between them. The hunger in him is recognizable—she’s seen it before, in Friction and her mother, perhaps even Thanatos, and knows the feeling herself. She feels the drive pumping through her veins, calling her to a higher power, beckoning of something more. Perhaps it is this something that arouses the Friesian’s interest from cold ebony depths, stirring slowly, ready to be released into success or damnation. Such is the story of her life, she supposes, tip toeing on that fine fragile line. This grulla stallion is just another piece of the puzzle. Perhaps he can give her what she needs, what she craves with that same notorious hunger. Her thoughts are drawn back to him with his introduction and question, her dainty ears pricking before a wry grin coils Requiem’s black lips. “Interesting choice of words, Wasp,” her eyes seem to try and hold him in their keen depths, roiling and uneasy with the devilry there, “Are you going to beg?” Her pretty head tilts slightly to the side, as though to tease him, but her grin soon darkens and her eyes grow like cold stones. Flicking the thick length of her wavy tail, the Friesian shifts her weight, taking half a step back as though to appraise him. “I don’t have time for beggars,” she muses, her feminine voice slipping from her tongue in a sultry purr as her eyes drift for a moment over the stallion, perhaps telling him to beat it if he is the scrounger sort. Either way, he is a handsome one, she’ll give him that. Nothing extravagant or particularly eye-catching, but it is not the character of the coat that the black mare is interested in. It is something more that she needs, questions and indignation lighting her pretty features as she looks back to Wasp’s face. “My name is Requiem,” she gives him a powerful gaze that demands him to prove to her that he’s worth it all, and he won’t be disappointed. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘Pretty pink roses bleached by the moon to ashes — ASHES OF ROSES, ASHES OF ROSES.’ friesian hybrid mare . caedes x exodus . eight years old . black with black eyes . dark . 15hh |
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Remember...if you feel glum, just shake your bum! #EpicStrut ![]() paper faces on parade; | |
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| devotchka | Jul 1 2014, 06:49 AM Post #4 |
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WELL SWEET MOTHER TERESA ON THE HOOD OF A MERCEDES BENZ
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![]() Lines © skater4life509. WASP ' if i had a heart i could love you, if i had a voice i would sing ' ______________________________________________________________________________________ SHE has said nothing, although he has yet to give her the chance to. Mares don’t like it if you stand there silent, showing all your bad assets. You have to appear strong, or in Wasp’s case, be strong. He has nothing to hide. The grulla surveys the mare again. She looks Friesian in her breeding, plain in colour but it is attractive, pleasing to the eye. Her body is curved in the right places and he can’t help but think she’d look very nice in his home. His eyes, which are almost gold in colour, stare into her own, deciphering what game she was trying to play with him. Wasp’s experience of mares is limited, but by his own female relatives, he knows how dangerous their tauntings can be. THE mare remains silent, although her ebony ears are now facing him, and she looks like she is processing the information. The grulla has the feeling that if he waits, good things will come to him, and so his powerful body relaxes into a more comfortable stance, waiting for her move. He is somewhat impatient by nature, but he steadies himself, arranges his face into a neutral position to hear her words. She is amused, his ears swivel forwards more to listen to her retort as he frowns for a moment. She is playing with him, something he does not appreciate, and his face darkens, despite his steel colouring he displays a likening to his coal black sire before she speaks again. She purrs at him, and Wasp takes a deliberate step forwards. If she felt intimidated, she could run. He half wants her to, it would make this more fun. 'I don’t beg to anyone.’ He says in a growl to match her purr, his intentions of starting out like a gentleman dropped. She knew he was a dark and he was not there to chase around pretending to be something he was not. If she wanted success she would be able to see it, if not, then he was wasting his time. Still, she gives him her name, and he ponders over it for a second. Requiem. ‘And why are you here Requiem? You don’t strike me as a foolish filly barely of age.’ Wasp pauses, allowing his eyes to rather deliberately calculate her shapely form, ‘You’re better than that.’ He finishes, letting her play her next move. She is not old, and she would know that was not his intention, but she is not stupid enough to think that the homeless is going to solve all her problems. Why then, was she here? theme |
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| `d e p p | Jul 2 2014, 01:10 PM Post #5 |
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I think everybody's nuts.
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![]() source. _________________________________________________________________________________ R E Q U I E M Ashes of roses, ashes of roses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . One of the mare’s fluted ears pricks forward to catch the deep voice of the stallion rumble from his dark lips, the biting edge of his growl confirming the authority that she had sensed in him (or at least the authority that he wants). A wry grin, dancing on the edge of a smirk, coils her velvet lips with this new turn in events. Suddenly the gentleman is gone and the wolf has come out to play—how exciting! After all, it is only the wolves, filthy and wicked, who have clawed their way to the top, leaving the gentlemen to cower in their bloody shadows. It is a wolf then, that the vixen wants, what she needs to feed the desire that wets her barbed tongue. Her body seems to coil as she stands, slender muscles curling as her black eyes hold the grullo stallion, offering him a delightfully malevolent leer of their own as he continues with his rolling snarl. He inquires of her intentions, and Requiem casts him a sinful smile to meet his words. “You are a clever one,” She hums to him in false praise, garnishing her double-edged sword like a demon would hide a dagger behind proud cherubic wings. He is correct, after all—she is better than that, better than most. Surely her mother would think differently (the bitter old hag), but Requiem had been well-groomed in her youth to not settle for anything or anyone, to want it all—and to take it. She deserves it all, does she not? Now she is in her prime, and there is no better time than this. Flicking the thick length of her wavy tail around her shapely flanks, the Friesian mare fixes the muscled stallion with her keen eyes, demanding his attention as she drifts a step closer to him and emphasizes her point. “It is not what I am after, Wasp, but whom,” the leer lingers to twist the corners of her velvet dark lips, her words slipping deliberately from her steeled tongue in a heady purr that is nearly a hiss. “I am looking for someone who can give me what the others can’t—a key that raises them above the average-minded fool,” her leer deepens into a smirk, her gaze holding his before her eyes drift over the rest of him, as though to silently demand if he has what she needs—if he is what she needs. “This is a lowly place to search,” she shrugs absentmindedly, “but a diamond among the dust is the most valuable, don’t you think?” Her sultry tone hardens slightly, perhaps to test him, judge him for what he has to give her. This is not her maiden journey into this particularly territory of conversation —she has searched before—and her skills and wit are honed into dangerous tools. If Wasp is truly the wolf that he wants to be, then he may just be her elusive diamond. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘Pretty pink roses bleached by the moon to ashes — ASHES OF ROSES, ASHES OF ROSES.’ friesian hybrid mare . caedes x exodus . eight years old . black with black eyes . dark . 15hh |
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Remember...if you feel glum, just shake your bum! #EpicStrut ![]() paper faces on parade; | |
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| devotchka | Jul 3 2014, 05:46 AM Post #6 |
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WELL SWEET MOTHER TERESA ON THE HOOD OF A MERCEDES BENZ
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![]() Lines © skater4life509. WASP ' if i had a heart i could love you, if i had a voice i would sing ' ______________________________________________________________________________________ THERE is no use hiding anymore. He is his father’s son after all, and if anything, she seems amused at his true colours. He is an animal after all, true to his animal instincts, and it is those that will always succeed over other intentions. He wants to survive, he wants to be the best, and after his time is over, he wants his spawn to do the same, simple as. He will never be content with living his life out on the mountain ranges as some kind of hermit, like his parents have done, his mountain topped land will be where the other alliances will crane their necks back to gaze upon him in his glory. These may be the musings of a young stallion, fresh and ready to attack the world, but they are serious intentions. His eyes meet hers, and after his sudden outburst, he chuckles, his teeth bared rather than a playful affair. There was no need to be completely serious all the time. THE black mare praises him, and Wasp, unclear of her true meaning behind the words, merely flickers his ears back and forth in uncertainty. So he was correct in guessing her age, not that is a setback, if anything, older mares may prove very useful to him. He cannot be wasting his time with foolish young idiots who know nothing of the real world and grow bored of his intentions. Besides, she really is a lovely specimen. The air is chill and the ground frozen but all equines in their prime feel that desire, and Wasp is no exception. He eyes her sleek, dark coat stretched over her muscles, her heavy yet shapely bone that is so characteristic of her breed. She steps towards him and he refocuses his somewhat lewd gaze back to her face. Staring, after all, is rude. A sneer crosses over his handsome face as the grulla straightens up, his ebony tail darting round his hocks in anticipation as he chooses his words carefully. ‘Then I think you’ve found what you came here for, Requiem.’ He pauses. ‘As you have seen, I care little for niceties. I intend to create something the likes of Kormada has never seen before. It’s up to you if you’d like to become a part of it.’ He hisses, his ochre eyes glinting as he waits for her reply. theme |
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| `d e p p | Jul 3 2014, 03:54 PM Post #7 |
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I think everybody's nuts.
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![]() source. _________________________________________________________________________________ R E Q U I E M Ashes of roses, ashes of roses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Requiem can feel the grullo stallion’s gaze lingering, tracing the feminine curves of her shapely figure with a hunger that she has seen before. The Friesian is obviously confident in herself and her body. She has used it before, after all, though she is grateful that the terrible effects of birth have not lasted, and her body has long-since recovered to its healthy and beautiful figure. Still, it is because of this that she does not flinch from his wanting eyes—she’s not even disgusted, quite honestly. Stallions are creatures of lust, and a mare could easily use this to her advantage if she has the wit to do so. With her long, wavy mane tousled gently in a cold winter breeze, the black mare raises her chin a few degrees, hardly trying to conceal the smirk that shadows her velvet lips. Ebony eyes match Wasp’s, seeking out their greedy desire as she openly appreciates the handsome contours of his muscles. After all, this game is only fun when two participants make a proper debut, and she finds the grullo stallion to be playing his cards rather well. It is his words that bring Requiem’s gaze back, her keen eyes slowly finding the lines of his strong face again, fluted ears pricking daintily forward. One side of her dark brow arches briefly and thin nostrils flare in a silent exhale. “Is that so?” She muses, considering his bold claim for a moment. If nothing else, she admires his confidence, knowing that it is a key characteristic in someone who can go somewhere. Not the only key of course, but drive cannot be driven by someone who is insecure and bashful, and a drive is certainly needed in order to succeed. Flicking her long crimped tail, the Friesian continues in a deriding purr. “’Something the likes of Kormada has never seen’—that is a speech I have heard before, Wasp; I suppose you have every intention in actually fulfilling it,” her black gaze grows hard as she eyes him, the sultry tone that slips over her tongue misleading the gravity that laces the lines of her pretty face, “Tell me then, what makes you so different?” It is a baited question, and Requiem doesn’t try and hide it. Enough time has already been wasted—she will not lose more. Shifting a step forward to emphasize her point, the black mare fixes Wasp with her intent eyes, her lips cradled in a tempting leer. “What makes you so powerful?” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘Pretty pink roses bleached by the moon to ashes — ASHES OF ROSES, ASHES OF ROSES.’ friesian hybrid mare . caedes x exodus . eight years old . black with black eyes . dark . 15hh |
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Remember...if you feel glum, just shake your bum! #EpicStrut ![]() paper faces on parade; | |
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| devotchka | Jul 8 2014, 11:53 AM Post #8 |
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WELL SWEET MOTHER TERESA ON THE HOOD OF A MERCEDES BENZ
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![]() Lines © skater4life509. WASP ' if i had a heart i could love you, if i had a voice i would sing ' ______________________________________________________________________________________ TO his surprise, she does not shy away under his gaze. Despite his mother’s well refined example of bearing down on any stallion that dare look at her the wrong way, Wasp’s eyes wander freely. Perhaps she is well aware of her beauty, and presumably of what it can bring her, so long as she is prepared to put up with these kind of looks. From his point of view, looks are not as highly ranked as perhaps the drive and that something that separates a good mare from the rest of them, something Requiem here is demonstrating, but if she is pretty too, it is always a bonus. Whether it is because he is inexperienced to the game she is playing, or trying to make up for it, he allows her to continue in her tricks. SHE lifts her chin and studies him back, and the grullo puffs out his chest ever so slightly. He is a well built beast – his mother’s predominantly stockhorse lines give him power though his sire’s lineage gives him a Warmblood appearance, coupled with his unusually coloured coat, he is quite the sight. He may not be as loudly coloured as some of these other stallions he has seen, but Wasp knows it’s not what’s on the outside that necessarily counts. His intentions are not to overpopulate the planet with little grullo foals, his legacy would come soon enough with time and more mares, but whatever stature one possesses, muscle is muscle and Wasp has plenty of it to work his way up to the top. His tail flicks softly round his striped hocks, regarding the ebony mare with a glint in his amber eyes. THE mare opposite him questions him, rhetorically of course. Wasp merits her with a smirk and tilts his head to the side, almost daring her to question him again. Their conversation is flirty, and she seems comfortable toeing the line, but if she pushes him over it, he will show Requiem her place, no matter how much he needs help from mares like her. His eyes narrow slightly, half of him, the flesh and blood side of him, likes having her near, so much he considers stepping forwards and closing the gap between them. However, his head wants to think, and keep her guessing as well. Only a foolish stallion would lay all his cards down on the table, and no matter how persuasive the Friesian mare thinks she is, he will not give into her just yet. WASP remains silent, instead fixing the mare with a dangerous look in his ochre eyes as she steps forwards, teasing him, toying with him and she knows it, his body tense though he does not take a step away from her. He fixes her with a sneer of his own, the tendons in his neck flexing as he turns his greyish head towards her own so that his yellowed teeth are merely inches away from her own. ‘And what makes you think I’m going to tell you? In here, of all places? I don’t know you apart from any other here, trying to barter her life away.’ He pauses, regarding her dark face for a moment. ‘I’ve seen enough though. You know what you want, and you’ll do the right thing, so join me.’ He smirks down at her, ‘I don’t know who gave you that same talk before, but you haven’t seen anything yet.’ theme |
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| `d e p p | Jul 8 2014, 07:45 PM Post #9 |
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I think everybody's nuts.
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![]() source. ________________________________________________________________________________ R E Q U I E M Ashes of roses, ashes of roses . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Silently they contest each other, playing with their eyes, words, and bodies a certain terrible game of wits. He plays a card, she matches it with one of her own, and the cycle begins again. The mare’s keen black eyes watch him, knowing that the grullo stallion dances with her, tip-toeing on the fine line that she has set. Drawing ever closer, she can feel the hunger on her tongue once again. However, Requiem doesn’t allow it to excite her like she once did—she is too wise for that now, and won’t have young enthusiasm get in her way again. She steels herself, a cold stone on the inside compared to the sultry manipulation that laces her physical features. Wasp draws closer to her, extending his handsome head until she can feel the warmth burning between their dark skin, hovering with hot desire and dangerous teeth—an exciting combination. Nonetheless, the stallion’s words prove to be a disappointment. He gives her nothing but shadowy secrets and empty promises, her dainty ears disappearing into the thick mass of her wavy mane as he compares her to the other lowly wretches that infest this planet. Velvet lips curl in displeasure, violently tempted by the proximity that Wasp has put between them. In the short silence that follows, the Friesian finds herself picking him apart, exposing him for what he really is. She needs a wolf, strength, a masculine power that can help her rise to where she belongs. By the time the grullo has started speaking again, Requiem has already made up her mind. As hot-headed as he might be, Wasp knows where he wants to go, and has a plan. That alone is more than she can say for her previous claimer. The grullo stallion has potential, and an authority that is just within reach—he craves it, she can tell, he just needs proper grounds to reach it. Quite a duo they could make, she muses to herself. A tantalizing grin, bordering on a leer, curls the mare’s dark lips as she fixes him with her stony eyes. “I sure hope you’re right,” her voice slips out almost a whisper, sighing darkly against her tongue, “And I will show you the difference between a simple wench and I, so you will never make that mistake again.” She promises him, her mild threat coated in her siren purr, knowing that she is sorely unlike all the rest of them—she will go somewhere, accomplish something—and the purpose in her dark gaze is daunting. Holding his eye for a moment, the Friesian draws back, allowing her tempting grin to slip into something darker. “Very well, Wasp; you have convinced me,” she hums to him, almost in compliments for having impressed her at all, “Show me the way.” Her thick wavy tail flicks around her feathered hocks, her pretty head high and keen eyes holding the grullo stallion. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ‘Pretty pink roses bleached by the moon to ashes — ASHES OF ROSES, ASHES OF ROSES.’ friesian hybrid mare . caedes x exodus . eight years old . black with black eyes . dark . 15hh |
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9:15 AM Jul 11