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always burn your lungs & not the memories; ISCAIE Posted on May 1, 2021 at 00:53:01 AM by mag
Member Name: mag
Character Name: Iscaie
Gender: Female
Breed: American Paint Horse
Color: Buckskin Dun (Ee Aa n/Cr DD ) Tobiano (n/TO)
Height: 15.0 hh
Age: 3 years old
Lineage (if born on TLI): NA
Member Contact: discord: mag#4337
Sample Post: The second you step foot into Bitter Lullen, everything just sort of...slots into place. Even the air tastes like promise and as you inhale deeply, you can't help but smile. It seems fortunate that you were here, even after your father was cast aside, because without lingering in Bitter Lullen you'd have never met Fenrir. You're still not grateful that you did, but your bed is made and you will lie in it. It's true, you will admit that there's a certain appeal to him. He's attractive, sure, but it isn't what you were seeking long term. It isn't what you told yourself was necessary. It's something closer to...a darkness, but you will do what you can with what you have. It sounds so cliched that you roll your eyes, but it's true. Potential is spoke of in the number of mares taken and the number of children sired, in the battles won and the scars healed.
To you, it is overrated; you've never had a desire for such things, nor a stallion who coveted them. Your mother did, and look where that got her--traded in for nothing more than a land, hopping from stallion to stallion to stallion, no better than a camp-follower in the eyes of those around her. She is so desperate for power she chases after a hit of it however she can, winding up as nothing more than a used up, cast aside shell good for no more than whatever children she can provide.
You resent her for it, giving you this idea of how a mare goes about making herself known, of the only way a mare can be useful. You'd rather be Akita, you think; desired and smart, a force to be reckoned with (only without the pesky feelings. You watched as she tore herself to pieces over Rowan, wanting to scream at her wasted potential). You vow to never be so pathetic as either mare. Take the lessons you need from each; take your mother's seduction, take her skill with words and her bedroom eyes. Take Akita's cunning, take her strength and her ability to bend a stallion to her will. Leave behind the desperation; leave behind the love. Choose someone you are better than, are smarter than; choose someone who is weak. Choose a mold for yourself; become the power behind his name, and move beyond the petty restrictions for a mare; take the power only afforded those born male.
That is the goal; that is what you strive to be.
But this stallion...this stallion was a bad choice, you have decided. He's not like anyone you've ever known; he isn't safe, he doesn't seem quite hinged. None of your usual tricks will work on him, but you realized this far too late. He isn't the easy target you vowed to find, and it is a mistake.
When the tell-tale signs of autumn heat didn't grace you, you realize you're tied to him more than you ever expected, and you will not become your mother. One stallion's children, and no more; you are not a toy to be passed around.
(He's a pretty face, a compelling force, and you are more like your mother than you ever realized.)
When he looks at you, you feel like little more than a butterfly pinned to a board. Helpless to flee, nothing more than a decoration coveted by a cruel master. You are out of your depth, and it terrifies you.
You will not show it.
Instead, you will smile and you will flirt; you will grace this stallion with a colt, and you will push out the other mares until you are on top. In his eyes, in his heart, in whatever warped sort of esteem he may have. A clear set of goals is key, and you will not lose sight of your target.
You don't bother calling for him; from what you remember, he's prowling around you already and you are little more than prey. So you settle in to wait, to greet him and to do what you must.
All is not lost; you will not be her.
Also a 3rd person as I’ve not decided yet how I will write this character:
Her mother is dead. It's a strange concept; in all honesty, they had never been that close. She'd never been particularly close with her father either, but as far as Eve knows, there's still a chance. To think, the mare who birthed her, who raised her, is gone? Without even a goodbye, with no chance for reconciliation? The pretty palomino mare doesn't know how to process it.
Eve is numb. That seems the best word for this...whatever she is feeling. It's not sadness, she doesn't feel some gaping void. She just feels...alone. So it's only logical, then, that she wandered here. She'd never really intended to wind up in the homeless grounds, but she had nowhere else to go. Maybe back to her father's land? Honestly, she wasn't even positive of anything but his name. She'd been so young when they last visited, it just seems less like going home and more like throwing herself at the mercy of strangers. If she's going to do something so stupid as that, Eve will do it where she has a chance of an actual adult life, thank you very much.
If she were particularly poetic, Eve would compare the frozen lands in front of her to her heart, right now.
She isn't poetic, she is practical. Which means one simple thing: she needs to brush this off. She has made her choices, and they led her here. Eve knows well enough that she needs to find a land and a herd--she'll never survive the winter on her own, in this state. SO she does the simple thing and pastes on a smile. No stallion wants her drama, her worries, her fears. Eve isn't a naïve little filly. Her worth lies in her looks, and whatever sort of depression this is doesn't help her already plain form.
Here's one thing mother left me with, she thinks bitterly. A lesson in why all that matters is my coat, and absolutely nothing to show for it. As she wanders, Eve tries not to grow more and more bitter, but it's hard. She's alone, nowhere to go, and---is she crying? Eve laughs bitterly. She didn't even like her mother that much. Why even shed a single tear? It's too much effort. She refuses to weep for a mare who never had much to say to her beyond 'It's a pity you wound up so...simple, Eve. I'm sure someone will find you pretty enough though, darling. You really needn't worry.'
Even as she tells herself this, she doesn't stop crying. Apparently it's hard to combat a lifetime of polite, backhanded compliments and the insidious hatred of herself. It's not body-shaking sobs, pathetic and slobbering, but silent grief. Eve doesn't know what's worse, really--the potential of being noticed for her distress, or hiding all of this anger and pain away; resentment only ever grows.
She's stopped alongside a cliff, backed into a corner and she can't even begin to care, because really, does it matter if someone comes by right now? At this point, she couldn't care less what any other equine thinks. Her mother is gone, and Eve needs to adapt to her new life.