Posted by <font color=#c6aea1>J</font> on December 10, 2008, 1:47 pm
131.162.154.227
J
4 Years Old
Arabian
Female
She looks so innocent and trustworthy,
BUT she doesn’t know when to trust, even herself. Sometimes she trusts too easily, and sometimes she doesn’t trust enough.
Get established in a herd (start learning who to trust, haha…)
Gain the element of AIR.
Solira
Espionage
SongDragon
((Oh me oh my, I actually need a sample post. Here’s Mock’s last post, anyway, since I still need to work J out a little better in my head.))
The territory suited Mock Orange as well as any territory did. In the end it was all a gilded cage and she was just one more trapped sparrow, beating her wings futilely upon the bars. So here she was in Pride, smelling of Abhimani’s scent. She was thrown in with his mares, Grave Digger and another’s scent that she did not know, but she was not of them. She was not like them. Mock snorted, as though trying to shove away such petty thoughts. One more land was no more interesting than the next. At least nothing here had yet shown itself to be interesting. Or even pleasing. Her eyes, with that rather closed-off, aloof look that added a haze to them gazed around her, hardly seeing. There was nothing to see. His scent to her nostrils were the tired antagonisms, though he was too prideful to see it himself. Of course he was, he was Pride’s king. Maybe that was why he and Mock could not understand each other. Or was it more that he had no patience with her rhymes, or had not the intelligence to figure them out?
Abhimani only wanted Mock as a gem, as far as she could tell. And she was gemlike, with her long, silken mane, red in hue, falling across chestnut shoulders that rippled beautifully with every move she made, like a quivering sunset during an Indian Summer. She was Arabian, like so many others here, a horse of the desert, with a swanlike neck, a delicately carved face, and a dainty posture, standing only fifteen hands high. A tantalizing scent hung around her, the scent of mock orange in full bloom. It is such a simple white flower, and then it goes out and plays such simple little tricks, stroking the moon with long fingers of that scent, so delicious and strong, the flower of weddings, and also meaning counterfeit. Counterfeit. What a lovely word for Mock. Mock Orange. Was she really the mare you thought she was, with her rebel spirit kicked out of her long ago? Is she really the nearly docile thing that followed you here? Now she stands in your land breathing down the neck of your territory, like a medium salsa type breath, hot and cloying, not quite sure yet what she really is any more than you are.
“Hello there little horses,
Have we been sleeping well?
This is where I add my curses
And we all go to hell.”
There wasn’t much to do around here, and her sweet, lustrous voice rang out with a sort of plaintive quality to it. She held still, barely moving, even to defend herself from bugs that might attack or to browse the lovely selection of grasses. Mock was surprised grass could grow this close to horses so full of hot air. Anyway, the rhyming chestnut was waiting, waiting for someone to make this worth her while, and she didn’t mean by putting a baby in her loins. She’d had one of those before, they weren’t worth it. What else have we got in that little book? Recollection. Mock orange is supposed to mean recollection. Well, that, you see, is not Mock’s strong point. She’ll pass, thanks, as lovely as the thought is. Oh we await you, but we don’t wait overly long, because stallions have a way of disappointing us and never showing up with anything interesting and always with their dicks leading the way. Never a polite word from them that, in their petty minds, doesn’t lead them closer to sex. I hate them as I hate sex. Sing it again, Mock, loud and clear. Maybe this time they’ll hear you, girlie.
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