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a wild in you; RIM Posted on May 3, 2021 at 05:13:43 AM by reli
member name: reli
character name: Rim
gender: Mare
breed: Hanoverian Mutt
color: Dark Bay
height: 16.1hh
Age: Five years
Lineage: n/a
member contact: Reli#1322 on Discord
sample post:
[ He has not travelled across much of this new world yet. Perhaps the plague of darkness has stolen away the wanderlust from his heart, just as it had stolen away the life from the smallest plant, from each little creature, from things he hadn’t even realized had life enough to steal.
From…
everything.
This darkness has certainly stolen something from the red stallion, that much cannot be questioned, but how much it has taken, exactly, has yet to be discovered (no…decided). Though he has not known it like this, he has known pain. He is well acquainted with heartache. He has felt his heart and mind bleed from ethereal wounds that refuse to heal, each jagged scab ripped away to reveal the gasping anguish beneath, each red-rimmed layer more inflamed than the last as it bleeds sorrow, and pity, and anger that fester and rot within the deepest parts of himself.
A stronger man would have forgotten these scars. (Or is it a foolish man?)
The ghosts of his wounds rise when the butterfly comes to him; they coo in his ear and whisper along his skin until his eyes open and his spine tingles with a shiver that does not come from the cold. He doesn’t see it at first—not until the soft beams of dawn play against the movement of its wings. An illusion? Fang first thinks to himself, remembering Itarillë and her tricks, and the hard lines of his face dare to soften slightly, releasing some of the tension that death and loss have weathered against his shoulders. It lasts but a moment; perhaps experience has given him no favor when his peace is snuffed out, shriveling away as quickly as the butterfly.
‘Come to the Borderlands tomorrow to find the answer,’ it tells him.
The Raven. He recalls the macabre black bird perched in the city square, speaking in rhymes and giving the people riddles to trap their minds. He had assumed it was trying to warn them—had it been something else?
Had the Raven been the first Terror to haunt them?
Fang cannot say what it is that compels him to move then, whether it is curiosity, stubbornness, fear, or something else entirely—whatever it is, he tells himself it is of his own free will. He is not surprised when he sees the crowd (the Raven, he thinks again to himself, it’s like the Raven). This gives him pause, his large hooves halting slowly in the icy snow, chin thrusting up in silent defiance as he stares with foolish courage towards the large black stallion (he had been black, hadn’t he, dark like the crow, and just as cunning?).
There is a bitterness in the boy that refuses to give an answer to the stranger’s riddle, refuses to even give it the dignity of thought. But his bitterness withers away to wherever his wanderlust has gone, and after a brief pinching of his lips, he finds himself muttering a response that is more sigh than speech, a breath that is snatched by winter’s breeze and carried to the one in the pavilion. ]
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