Meadow

The melting of stone is a vast undertaking. The recreation often requires immense pressure, intense flames wishing to incinerate, or the constant lapping of the tides. How much can you yield before you disappear into a fine dusting of the being you were meant to become? Spring carries the assurance of life renewed, but what prospect does that present when one is not fulfilling their own whims and desires? Though the weather may transition and the flowers will bloom, the return of winter and the wilting of petals will forever loom as an abominable reminder that what is given can easily be snatched from your grasp. At least the lighter colored girl does harbor thoughts with a silver lining of hope and a small shimmer of purpose. The crafting of a generation, much like the destruction of stone, is a long and tenuous process.

Oftentimes there is an extremely fine line dividing the weak and the downtrodden. Frequently the line between will blur, rendering the distinction between the two as unrecognizable. Yet there is potential within both aspects mentioned above, for those seen as feeble are commonly underestimated and the destitute have the incentive to ascend forth from the cavernous despair like the sun bursting free from the darkness of the night. Perhaps being forever entangled as a puzzle piece to a situation less than ideal is not a bitter prison, but instead a challenge from which to rise into the balmy embrace of what fate is offering.

The ebony vixen also views the lengthening of the days with a joyous welcome. The tendrils of winter are rescinding is a tedious and drawn out retreat, drained soldiers heading home until the next war beckons them. The release of frigid fingers from the surrounding islands will be a welcome reprieve as her skin pines for the sweltering grasp of the sun. She dips her head in acknowledgement of words spoken, a gentle nod in agreement.

Small ears prick to welcome the words of the other, absorbing the minute details offered forth in the few sentences uttered. "The mountains must be a blight chillier than the foothills here. 'Lest down here there is a breaking in the relentless breeze I find that mountains offer ye." The posed question causes her to falter slightly, allowing the chance for her to formulate a response. "I go where me hooves lead me - they have yet ter find a destination ter their liking." Her own bright amber eyes watch the other attentively, assessing the body language offered as she struggles to determine if this is a prodding for information or a gentle threshold for friendship.