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.
no one there to shame me for my youth ; ISCAIE Posted on May 1, 2021 at 02:44:33 AM by mag
It isn’t exactly a difficult change to make, leaving her home, striking out on her own. She’s always felt a little...stifled where she was. Iscaie is a free spirit born to a paranoid mother hen, the greatest irony of her short and boring life.
She’s never been allowed to stray from her mothers side, never been allowed to leave their little band and just live. It’s always words of caution and long, pointed looks from the elders whenever she even has the bravery to stretch the rules in the slightest bit. No coy glances at strangers, no brushes with the unknown, no fun. She doesn't even get to speak to the wanderers who pass through, her mother shuffling her away like she’s some milk-drunk newborn and not a mare grown.
Too many times she’s been told, ’Not so far, Iscaie. Not so fast. You don’t know what’s good for you; let your father decide. Don’t rush it. As if all she has to look forward to is settling down, waiting prettily at her mothers side as her life passes her by and her future is decided for her.
It isn’t fair, and that’s finally why she ran. She’d been wanting to for months, biding her time until there was an opening and the first chance she had, she fled. Perhaps if she was a better mare she would feel guilty about capitalizing on the chaos her aunt caused by up and dying in front of the herd, but it was a perfect opportunity. Nothing close to this sort of distraction had happened in months, and her grief (as fleeting as it was) couldn’t stop her.
She steps out of the ocean, briny water dripping from her coat and the sad breeze barely stirring her soaked mane. Her coat is made dark by the water, less the normal brushed-gold and more a sooty brown; the afternoon sun is harsh, though, and she can already feel it warming her. She shakes, throwing off the water and twitching at the pull of salt drying in her fur, tacky and uncomfortable.
She’s practically shivering with excitement, overwhelmed with the potential. Alone, for the first time. Able to make her own choices, able to meet someone, to do something. Limitless potential, and not a controlling mother or aunt or cousin or father in sight.
Iscaie lets out an excited little snort, unable to contain herself, and she sets off at a slow walk down the beach. She veers inland slightly, easing her way up the sloping dunes. She’s not spotted anyone yet, but that’s no excuse to sit and wait. If she keeps moving, she’ll happen upon someone eventually - she’s come too far to fail now.