Force-claiming is allowed here once a week per character, as is blocking force-claims by the Peak/Lagoon (as a whole) once a week. Rollover is on Sundays.
The silence is unnerving.
Even the crickets are quiet in their grassy beds, cowering against the storm rolling in. Dark grey clouds black out the moon, rolling closer on a cold northern wind. She shudders against the chill, feeling the first fat drops of rain splatter against her back as thunder rumbles overhead. Shortly after, a bolt of lightning splits the sky, casting the world in an ominous purple glow before fading back to darkness. Her hooves paw restlessly at the dirt as a familiar anxiety creeps its way into her heart, sending shivers down her spine.
As a yearling, she’d lost her mother to a storm not unlike this one - or, more accurately, to a tree felled by the unforgiving winds that rode in with it. Now, she steadies herself against the wind, tucking her nose as it picks up tendrils of her mane and tail, tangling them around her neck and legs as she pushes forward in search of safety. Her ears flatten to her skull to block out the sounds that come with the breeze - the creaking limbs of old, gnarled trees and the sharp whistle that screeches through the leaves. She’d almost preferred the silence to this, perhaps because it was merely foreboding.
The storm itself? It terrifies her. It whispers promises of pain, reigniting memories she’d long buried. Her mother, crying out as the weight of the tree pressed against her and Luthien could do nothing, watching with panicked eyes as her mother’s life faded out. Her father banishing her for not protecting her - for being the reason she’d been out in the storm in the first place. After all, her mother wouldn’t have been in the forest had she not run there first herself in a tantrum.
The guilt weighs heavy on her heart and stokes the fear blooming in her chest. She lets out a strangled cry, lunging forward into a gallop so that the wind and rain lashes at her like tiny whips, stinging her face.
She doesn’t care about the pain. Pain is familiar, and she welcomes it like an old friend. Run, Luthien. The voice in her head is a crooning, wicked thing.
It speaks, and she listens.