Post by Finn on Feb 12, 2018 3:43:22 GMT
The Desolation.
Windswept plains give way beneath the weight of her passage, slight as her starved build has become. The moon has not risen and sunk beyond the tempestuous cloud cover more than once since the last torrent swept the land. The first of the summer storms had come early this year. What thin layer of semi-fertile soil exists above the permafrost has been thoroughly sodden. The first seedlings of Spring have all but drowned beneath the downpour and each tender patch of grass that would have relieved them after the long winter will struggle to sprout to fruition now.
Withers and neck form a sharp downward angle as the scuffed and worn end of her muzzle grazes the ground with each forward stride. Each exhalation stirs the dampened soil, sending little twigs and pebbles and loose clods of dirt tumbling. Steps come slow and ponderous, trodden with a care befitting the old and infirm, not a mare relatively young. Now and again, fresh shoots of green tickle the whiskers at the end of her snout, and there the mare pauses to nibble half the patch of greenery before moving onward. To take too much would endanger what precious little growth has begun to take root, and even the gaunt shell of her ribs and the empty pit of her stomach cannot argue against the folly of that.
Soft greenery fades away to spates of rotted soil. Again and again, her muzzle bumps pebbles of increasing size. Pebbles become rocks and, soon enough, hooves scrape across land barren and devoid of dirt and permafrost alike, blanketed by gravel unyielding and strange to traverse. Jutting rocks tower left and right, rising up from the ground in staggering monoliths. Although Wraith cannot see the impressive height of them, they brush by first her left shoulder and then her right. One foreleg stamps down in sudden, nervous tension and back she draws, away from the unknown abyss ahead.
The endless void beholden by pupils long faded to a milky silver could hold a gaping chasm waiting to swallow her at the first tumble. No, this unfamiliar path should be abandoned. Somewhat awkward is her turn towards more familiar ground, but stepping across terrain recently traveled is a swifter, more confident affair. Indeed, the mare navigates this path recently trod without dipping her head to the ground for guidance once.
Indeed, she would return to browsing for the sparse greenery that sprouts here and there, sporadically, if not for the faint sound of heavy hooves in the distance. One ear flicks towards the sound, oriented to her left, and the mare's body swings suddenly towards it. Nares flare in uncertainty that borders upon alarm, and it is all she can do to refrain from turning tail. While it would be strange indeed to encounter a Nomad or Dawnlander so deep into Wastelander territory, the possibility is enough to have her dancing in discomfort, one foreleg lifting, and then one rear. Backing any further risks encroaching upon that rocky precipice once more. Right and left are directions unknown and whoever the approaching individual might be, they would catch up with ease.
No.
Best meet them face on, rather than with her back turned. When the hooves are nearly loud enough to rumble in her chest, when she can feel the vibration of the stallion's (certainly a stallion, or his scent is exceptionally deceptive) approach through the scant ground between them, Wraith dares to whicker a quiet greeting, head held high enough to deny deference and belie any sign of weakness.
Windswept plains give way beneath the weight of her passage, slight as her starved build has become. The moon has not risen and sunk beyond the tempestuous cloud cover more than once since the last torrent swept the land. The first of the summer storms had come early this year. What thin layer of semi-fertile soil exists above the permafrost has been thoroughly sodden. The first seedlings of Spring have all but drowned beneath the downpour and each tender patch of grass that would have relieved them after the long winter will struggle to sprout to fruition now.
Withers and neck form a sharp downward angle as the scuffed and worn end of her muzzle grazes the ground with each forward stride. Each exhalation stirs the dampened soil, sending little twigs and pebbles and loose clods of dirt tumbling. Steps come slow and ponderous, trodden with a care befitting the old and infirm, not a mare relatively young. Now and again, fresh shoots of green tickle the whiskers at the end of her snout, and there the mare pauses to nibble half the patch of greenery before moving onward. To take too much would endanger what precious little growth has begun to take root, and even the gaunt shell of her ribs and the empty pit of her stomach cannot argue against the folly of that.
Soft greenery fades away to spates of rotted soil. Again and again, her muzzle bumps pebbles of increasing size. Pebbles become rocks and, soon enough, hooves scrape across land barren and devoid of dirt and permafrost alike, blanketed by gravel unyielding and strange to traverse. Jutting rocks tower left and right, rising up from the ground in staggering monoliths. Although Wraith cannot see the impressive height of them, they brush by first her left shoulder and then her right. One foreleg stamps down in sudden, nervous tension and back she draws, away from the unknown abyss ahead.
The endless void beholden by pupils long faded to a milky silver could hold a gaping chasm waiting to swallow her at the first tumble. No, this unfamiliar path should be abandoned. Somewhat awkward is her turn towards more familiar ground, but stepping across terrain recently traveled is a swifter, more confident affair. Indeed, the mare navigates this path recently trod without dipping her head to the ground for guidance once.
Indeed, she would return to browsing for the sparse greenery that sprouts here and there, sporadically, if not for the faint sound of heavy hooves in the distance. One ear flicks towards the sound, oriented to her left, and the mare's body swings suddenly towards it. Nares flare in uncertainty that borders upon alarm, and it is all she can do to refrain from turning tail. While it would be strange indeed to encounter a Nomad or Dawnlander so deep into Wastelander territory, the possibility is enough to have her dancing in discomfort, one foreleg lifting, and then one rear. Backing any further risks encroaching upon that rocky precipice once more. Right and left are directions unknown and whoever the approaching individual might be, they would catch up with ease.
No.
Best meet them face on, rather than with her back turned. When the hooves are nearly loud enough to rumble in her chest, when she can feel the vibration of the stallion's (certainly a stallion, or his scent is exceptionally deceptive) approach through the scant ground between them, Wraith dares to whicker a quiet greeting, head held high enough to deny deference and belie any sign of weakness.
