Author:
Apparition (formerly castaway)
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Date Posted: 20:29:06 04/14/01 Sat
Author Host/IP: px3nr.wp.shawcable.net/24.66.94.142
In reply to:
Secret Little Song
's message, "-a sudden breeze rushes over the land-an ash gray figure stands silently-" on 19:44:30 04/11/01 Wed
*His figure slides restlessly upon the mess of rock and earth which meets his iron hooves in rythemic chops, his legs pumping, thrusting wildly into the deep, airy undergrowth which creeps upward to slide along his cannon, winding up his limb, tickling his chest, whispering against the descentive slope of his neck down which the tangled, tumbling strands of his creme mane fall to meet them, their hostile greeting clutching the seductive stalks and tossing them downward to their death below, their inevitable return to the embroidered plain beneath him, destined to burden him no more, to attempt the flawful trick upon each who enter the meadow but him........... He shifts his great head, tipping his neck upward, downward, shifting its wrought position, the locks of his mane tossing in wild protest of the position in which they fall, trickling, slithering down the long of his neck to meet his protrudent jaw, tickling his cheek as it slides toward his nearing muzzle, a sudden twitch of his lip sending it to fall from its root and tumble down the base of his throat..... His playfull, rooty antics drizzle away with nearly sudden affect, his pace calming to a walk, a saunter, then finally dwindling to a stand, his limbs once more susceptable to the opertunist strands of wheat, his locks no longer snapping to reach them, rather only gently rippling at their ends, hung lazily 'side his neck.... The femme.. Young as him, small, compact, yet entirely enduced in spirited wounds, wounds which clothe her in unique apparel, those which only few stand to own, those few with soul over heart, passion over love, the unsettling beings which they were, one of which he had been..... Yet something was different, here.. Something was not as it had always been.. He could feel her... Her eyes, her vision upon him, searching him, scanning him, testing him, if only for a moment, engulfing him entirely, perhaps a curious gaze, one which he subconciously returned dispite the haughty realizations which stirred within him......... He shakes his head wildly, protestantly, the thin, wiry locks of his mane spilling downward to irritably stroke the pointe of his muzzle, his mind pulsing in both near and distant thoughts, streaming with information, with wry deciet, those of which his blood clutches before protest might arise and carries them off to all areas of himself, draining within his heart, collected once more to slide effortlessly through his body in a network of veins and such which link in an intricut pattern...... He was not this way... He could not look at another this way, lest he be trapped, trapped in the gaze of another, held in a world of lust and longing for love, a world which would soon destroy him, soul amidst it all.... This was not right...... It could not have been..... But why, then, could he not tear his grounded gaze from her....?
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