There is a gentleness found in iron fists and a cruelty sleeping in soft words
It came as no surprise to the mare that she had wandered into yet another prairie — it seemed she would forever be drawn to the rolling hills and sprawling borders. She had wondered at times what sort of preferences she would hold if she had been raised in a meadow and not in a highland temple, if the proverbial grass would still be greener on the other side and if she would catch herself spending countless hours amid a sea of trees instead of oceans of grass. The thought brought a smile to the mare’s lips, further softening her pastel features; would that she knew the answers to all of her questions, and would that those answers were all as kind as she hoped.
The sound of the stallions anger found her first, his words harsh and forceful, swearing at his surroundings with a vigor that surprised the mare. Whatever could have upset him so? Her opal-studded brow crinkled in concern as she followed the ruckus, hoping that the stranger was not injured or ill. Cresting the curve of a small hill, Cerridwen’s silvery eyes took in the faintly dappled form of the stallion, noting with relief that there were no outward signs of hurt. Though, depending on the male’s ailment, no visible abnormalities did not always mean there was no injury — physical or otherwise.
Moving toward the stranger, cloven hooves making enough sound over the dry summer grasses to herald her approach, Cerridwen waited until she was a companionable distance from the ivory and earth stained male before speaking.
“What has Denoctian soil done to upset you so, my friend?” Her melodic voice was as soft as she, “Could it be that you need a moment to rest?”
The dust of travel and the scent of morning dew were not lost on the healer; she may have been a newcomer to Novus, but she knew enough lore to understand that the Night Court’s signature scent wouldn’t be something that could only be found in the Dawn. Inspecting him further, though careful to keep scrutiny from her gaze, Cerridwen noted his lithe form and careful movements with little understanding. If he were a dancer, he was rather passionate; yet the way he stomped about hardly lent itself to his innate grace.
So she stood, and so she waited, a foreigner hoping to understand a foreigner.
cerridwen
"speech"
It came as no surprise to the mare that she had wandered into yet another prairie — it seemed she would forever be drawn to the rolling hills and sprawling borders. She had wondered at times what sort of preferences she would hold if she had been raised in a meadow and not in a highland temple, if the proverbial grass would still be greener on the other side and if she would catch herself spending countless hours amid a sea of trees instead of oceans of grass. The thought brought a smile to the mare’s lips, further softening her pastel features; would that she knew the answers to all of her questions, and would that those answers were all as kind as she hoped.
The sound of the stallions anger found her first, his words harsh and forceful, swearing at his surroundings with a vigor that surprised the mare. Whatever could have upset him so? Her opal-studded brow crinkled in concern as she followed the ruckus, hoping that the stranger was not injured or ill. Cresting the curve of a small hill, Cerridwen’s silvery eyes took in the faintly dappled form of the stallion, noting with relief that there were no outward signs of hurt. Though, depending on the male’s ailment, no visible abnormalities did not always mean there was no injury — physical or otherwise.
Moving toward the stranger, cloven hooves making enough sound over the dry summer grasses to herald her approach, Cerridwen waited until she was a companionable distance from the ivory and earth stained male before speaking.
“What has Denoctian soil done to upset you so, my friend?” Her melodic voice was as soft as she, “Could it be that you need a moment to rest?”
The dust of travel and the scent of morning dew were not lost on the healer; she may have been a newcomer to Novus, but she knew enough lore to understand that the Night Court’s signature scent wouldn’t be something that could only be found in the Dawn. Inspecting him further, though careful to keep scrutiny from her gaze, Cerridwen noted his lithe form and careful movements with little understanding. If he were a dancer, he was rather passionate; yet the way he stomped about hardly lent itself to his innate grace.
So she stood, and so she waited, a foreigner hoping to understand a foreigner.
cerridwen
"speech"
@
