. Begin Your Journey .: a distant ship, smoke on the horizon.

DAY AFTER DAY, LOVE TURNS GREY.
LIKE THE SKIN ON A DYING MAN.
NIGHT AFTER NIGHT, WE PRETEND ITS ALL RIGHT,
BUT I HAVE GROWN OLDER,
AND YOU HAVE GROWN COLDER,
AND NOTHING IS VERY MUCH FUN ANY MORE.
AND I CAN FEEL ONE OF MY TURNS COMING ON.
I FEEL COLD AS A RAZOR BLADE,
TIGHT AS A TOURNIQUET.
DRY AS A FUNERAL DRUM.
Name - Hawkbit
Age - four
Breed - mustang
Gender - female
Strength - Hawkbit is a rather clever creature, and she has the ability to take every situation with a commanding calmness.
Weakness - Hawkbit is a very sensitive creature, and has a great gift with empathy. And, while this can be a strength, more often, it proves to be a weakness. For the moods of others have a great effect on her own mood. If someone has suffered a great loss, she too suffers the emotional impact.
Minor Objective - make a good, true friend.
Super Objective - find love.
Intended Class - scholar

To the right, the trees break free from the choking thicket, giving way to endless hillsides spilling across the land. A broad river of soil and green. To the left, the darkness slunk onward for miles, only weak slivers of light making it past the thick canopy of leaf-membrane. She has traveled in this oppressive woodland for far too long. The sun is harsh, like the first light to a newborn's eyes. But, she glories in the warmth, and freshness of the air as the heavy must of bark and tree-mold fades from her nostrils. Upon the gently welting land clumps of speedwell have long since taken over, adorning their purple flowers. And, here and there, hawkbit has sprung from the ground, their yellow flowers upturned, mimicking the sun.

Above her, the clouds are nowhere to be seen. At the hour when the sun was at its utmost glory, they had dispersed into velvety blue. Now the sun has no veil, and its golden rays play among the tall grass, glittering and swaying. Across the field, wanders go on beguiling the midday swell of heat with passionate conversation, and contented naps. They do not notice the woman, though, perhaps some eyes are so compelled to follow the lithe form. But, not for long. She is not so beautiful as to command attention. And not so ugly as to crave disgusted jeering. She is both simple, and a creature of limitless multitudes. At first glance, she is but a woman. Small-boned, delicate. Breakable in every sense of the word. And, in the same moment, to a more focused audience, she is much more. She is of the earth, of the sky. Her neck, swan-like and graceful. Her eyes, grey and stunning. Her presence, both worldly and compellingly spectral. She is there, and in the blink of an eyes, she is a phantom among lung-breathers. Today, she is lost in the masses. Rose-grey, dappling crawling over her hind quarters. A horse. Nothing so much more.

She keeps away from the public haunt, she does not belong in the crowds, or before them. Perhaps, she belong in the back. Behind the curtain, to the sides. Away from the spotlight, and disconnected from the assembly. She is a shy creature, painfully so. Sensitive, to the highest, nearly crippling, degree. She is a hopeless romantic, one of those girls wishing for a gentleman to wisk her off her feel. A dreamer of dreams. A follower of the word and teachings of the wise. She is not a fighter, no, never has she harmed a fly. Nor could she, really. She has always been weak, always fragile. She is empathetic, acutly so. She is, for a lack of better words, Hawkbit. Why her mother chose the name, who knows. Mothers do not always have motives. It was on-the-spot. A play on words, a sound that came to form a title that would stick to a tiny, sickly babe for her entire life. Hawkbit. Many nights she would ask her mother, how she came to be Hawkbit. And her mother would reply, as she always did: “You are Hawkbit. Perhaps, the gods willed it to be so. Be proud of it.” She always had a way of explaining things to glorious heights.

And so, the god-willed Hawkbit, tiny and simply complex, made her way to the very top of a hill. One showers with sun and weed-bare. A song breaks from her lips, and it is feral, disheveled and, to all ears, it is beautiful. The song continues on, weaving a story of loss and love and royalty. It weaves on till it dies to a hum, and in her throat, a masterpiece is lost to the wind. Hawkbit tucks her slender legs under her lithe body. The grass concealing her from a land that does not yet understand. It is there that Hawk lays, perhaps, she remained till the sun fell behind the hills. Or, maybe she wandered off, searching the line of the horizon. The end of the world.

- H A W K B I T -
RUN TO THE BEDROOM, IN THE SUITCASE ON THE LEFT YOU'LL FIND MY FAVORITE AXE.
DON'T LOOK SO FRIGHTENED THIS IS JUST A PASSING PHASE. ONE OF MY BAD DAYS.