Common

Life on the Lost Isles had been quaint; and yet absolutely rife with drama. Penelope found herself pleased with this fact. She lives the life of a wallflower, and so she could live vicariously through the things she sees and hears. In those walking dreams, she was tall, beautiful, desirable even; instead of the unfortunate runt that the hand of reality had dealt her. The only time she’d been noticed was during the last season, which had resulted in the strapping yearling who was currently napping not too far from where she stood. He was a strapping young lad; tall, like his sire, but thickly built like her sire had been. Her focus was set upon the slumbering yearling, ears pointed with lazy interest. Her tail swayed behind her, the wirey tips nipping at her thigh which each casual whip of the pale, blonde tresses.

In the timeframe that Penelope has lived upon the Isles, she’s come to understand that this open common ground was a place where herd leaders would find the homeless (like herself), and bring them to their families. Something that young Penelope had longed for since her foal hood. Guilt buzzed around her psyche like a stinging fly, especially since she’d denied Damon that same family she had desired for herself by keeping him squared away. Rearing a foal without fellow mares to support her and foals for him to play with had been a challenge that made Penelope realize that with the new season coming? She would be forced to do so again, and again. So she was taking matters into her own hooves and driving her fate… In a manner of speaking.

Penelope would easily be described as petite. She stands at an unimpressive thirteen hands; even Damon towered over her by two full hands when he stood. Her bold red coat softened to a delicate pink at her barrel in a soft gradient of roan. Her mane and tail were an ashy blonde from the active flaxen gene, and her dainty doll-like face was donned with a single blaze with a pink nose. She wears white stockings up to the knee on her front feet, and up to her hocks on her hindquarters. She was a pretty little thing, to be sure. Judging by her confirmation? She was selectively bred before she managed to disappear into the wilds. This was only further emphasized by the fact that she looked a little underweight, instead of carrying a healthy level of toning and chub as many had put on shortly after winter had given way to spring.

The little mare would draw closer to the napping yearling, signaling to any who may be observing that she was claiming him as a secondary entity that one would be forced to deal with if they were to desire her.