Playground
Parents do not fear; your children are safe in the Playground. A benevolent fairy watches over young colts and fillies who come to frolic here. The trees are ancient things, and widely spaced (excellent for tag) and there are several low logs to leap over and many ponds and thickets full of wonder for the little ones. Come play and form friendships that will last a lifetime.
i can take you higher
IP: 139.67.206.211
Posted on April 5, 2011 at 00:26:57 AM by MARSTON
His thin winter coat is shedding out slowly, and the leggy colt brushes against the trees as he walks to the meadow, ridding himself of the itching that it causes. Though it had not grown thick in the heat of the desert, its growth is only natural. With its loss has come the sheen of new growth, his first real pelt of adult hair. Marston is proud of it – it means he is finally growing up – and he bucks energetically as he enters the playground, his black hooves reaching for the sky.
The colt is a fine-looking specimen with his bright eyes and prancing carriage. The beginning of young muscle is evident on solid frame, and his sharp spikes of his horns have begun to thicken and curl down. Though they are black at the base they lighten towards the point, leaving the sharp tip a bleached yellow that nearly matches the colored portion of his zebra-dun hide. The identity of his father is unquestionable – the horns are a dead giveaway – but save that obvious aspect, the colt is too like both of his parents to be clearly their offspring. He has Starlace’s way of slipping from place to place, but it is paired with Moriarty’s bravado. His eyes are brown and only flecked with gold, and though he is technically the same tobiano pattern as his mother, their white patches are placed far differently. Only his chest is marked with white, as well as a lopsided mark near the base of his tail that colors the hairs white, and his wide blaze.
Caught up in the heat and brightness of spring, Marston is temporarily oblivious to the smaller colt that stands quietly at the side of the Meadow. The boy is smaller than Marston himself – and he loves this, knowing that he is no longer the smallest – and once he has calmed his antics he moves towards the smaller boy. The colt bobs his head in greeting and smiles, but says nothing. Instead he reaches out curiously with his black muzzle and nudges Redshift on the shoulder. For all his wild imagination, Marston is still unsure when speaking with tohers. Perhaps that’s what happens when your mother sends you off to live with strangers.
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