Post by Deimos on Sept 2, 2011 21:55:03 GMT -5
Shadow-spun wisps of clouds drifted across the westering moon as they cast the tangled web of the Wildwood in and out of darkness. It would not be long before the veil of night would fade away into a blue-gray dawn, but for now, the late-summer foliage was entirely black and silver; the deep shadows lurking beneath the cathedral of leaves thick and heavy as though thousands of crows perched on each whitewashed branch, forming an impossible barrier for the snowy light to pierce with more than a rare, faint dapple. Almost as unsettling was the silence that hung suspended across the canopy of forestry; fragile as the intricate weave of spider webs, yet unbroken by the call of a night bird or any other creature that might lurk in the depths of the midnight forest.
It was during these deepest hours of the night that a lone equine lingered near a small rivulet at the forest’s edge, a stallion of seemingly melted shadow and eerily refractive pewter. The late-night passage of one who far preferred the company of the pale discus over Apollo’s glaring rays had brought him to this place where the grassy foothills and sparse trees were met with the edge of a wall of gnarled oaks and dense thickets. Spanish profile was inclined to survey the foreboding façade of age-old wood, yet he sensed no other signs of life beneath the deep shade of the forest. Without hesitation, a step was taken, and the midnight stag shattered the moon’s reflection as he followed the stream into the Wildwood.
Once beneath the woven canopy, a maze of pathways beckoned for him to follow, leading away through the darkness with the promise of a moonwashed clearing at their end. It certainly seemed likely that the reason so few ‘quines traveled here was the dismal fate of those foolish enough to listen to their call. To venture too far down those winding tracks was to be cursed to be forever lost—roaming endlessly through the eternal maze until thirst or madness took them. Perhaps the vagabond was aware of this deception, for he kept to his own course, casting thousands of tiny crystal droplets about him as he made his way upstream into the murky depths of forestry.
It was almost impossible to keep track of the waning evening’s passage, but as the frosty globe was sinking low into the vista of wilderness, the raven demon at last halted his progression as the stream he had been following widened into an unbroken pool. The caliph had long since left the frigid waters of the rivulet and had taken to wandering alongside its silvery trail, leaving his own track of scattered droplets and oval impressions. It was here that the mascu chose to pause in his progression long enough to contemplate the lacy black outlines of branches in the looking-glass. It certainly made for an interesting sight to behold, for the hellion’s canvas was an equal match for the iridescent waters as his peltage seemingly gathered the faint moonlight, letting it shimmer as his muscles rippled to allow his muzzle to graze the mirror’s surface.
It was said that the fabled moorwater that was the source of the deities’ power flowed here in the inky streams of the Wildwood, yet this onyx phantom was already familiar with its mysterious powers. The spectral shimmer of his ebon coat could be attributed to the potent liquid, as was the even stranger abilities he possessed, invisible though they were and easy to conceal. Needless to say, he was an outsider among those whom had not tasted the sickly-sweet drink of the Moor—the ones that called themselves “Pure.” Not that he would have chosen to stay by such arrogance and self-proclaimed severance anyway; he was of a distant personage and it was not in his nature to waste his breath in a debate over the flawed logic of their creed.
After the brief moment passed, the incubus took to his progression once more, daggers carrying him in an easy gait to continue following the quicksilver path into the deepest reaches of the woods. It was difficult to tell if impatience or simply the waning night was the cause, but the demon allowed his strides to flow into an elegant canter, the lineage of his forefathers evident in the carriage of his proud crest and sure steps as his sable tresses rose like a shroud in his wake whilst he maneuvered over fallen limb and stone-lined stream alike. He traveled in this way, occasionally slowing to an effortless trot to maneuver thickets or an uphill climb, until the moon was had long since vanished beyond the horizon.
As the faintest of gray glows began to seep into the eastern sky, the ancient tangled trees of the Wildwood at last began to reluctantly part with their shadowy cloak of night. The spell of silence, too, was broken, for the far-off sound of rushing water could be heard beyond the brambles and twisted trees. Slowing to a walk, the vagabond finally wove through one more stand of trees and tangle of thorny underbrush to behold a truly rewarding sight.
Here, within the heart of the woods lay a series of waterfalls, falling in steps down a wide face of rock before they traveled away in swift currents. Mist rose from the waters and hung delicately suspended about the atmos, adding a ghostly touch to the milieu. Here and there an inky tree leaned over the falls, partially hidden in fog, but for the most part the roof of foliage was lifted. Harks pitched forward as the twilight stag reached the aqua’s edge, his ooids surveying the clearings that surrounded the falling water. Here at last was a suitable place to reside, a well-kept secret within the foreboding woods.
The hellion had come to his decision. Contemplating vision swept about one last time as threads were tossed to the side, signaling agile forelegs to part with the rocky turf as the stallion rose in a tall rear, arc curved with grace and pride. The earliest of morning light could be seen reflected in his pelt as he let a note of claiming pierce the frigid air of dawn. Retaining perfect balance with the occasional toss of a fore dagger and the dancelike movements of his hind legs, the specter effortlessly stayed aloft as the echoes of his call trailed off to become lost in the woodlands. Once again allowing all four limbs reunion with the topography, he appeared statuesque as he stood surveying the land that he claimed for his own. For now, the spectral shapes in the mist were the only audience to witness the passing of a true hellion, yet it was impossible to know what would arrive with the coming of the grey dawn.
It was during these deepest hours of the night that a lone equine lingered near a small rivulet at the forest’s edge, a stallion of seemingly melted shadow and eerily refractive pewter. The late-night passage of one who far preferred the company of the pale discus over Apollo’s glaring rays had brought him to this place where the grassy foothills and sparse trees were met with the edge of a wall of gnarled oaks and dense thickets. Spanish profile was inclined to survey the foreboding façade of age-old wood, yet he sensed no other signs of life beneath the deep shade of the forest. Without hesitation, a step was taken, and the midnight stag shattered the moon’s reflection as he followed the stream into the Wildwood.
Once beneath the woven canopy, a maze of pathways beckoned for him to follow, leading away through the darkness with the promise of a moonwashed clearing at their end. It certainly seemed likely that the reason so few ‘quines traveled here was the dismal fate of those foolish enough to listen to their call. To venture too far down those winding tracks was to be cursed to be forever lost—roaming endlessly through the eternal maze until thirst or madness took them. Perhaps the vagabond was aware of this deception, for he kept to his own course, casting thousands of tiny crystal droplets about him as he made his way upstream into the murky depths of forestry.
It was almost impossible to keep track of the waning evening’s passage, but as the frosty globe was sinking low into the vista of wilderness, the raven demon at last halted his progression as the stream he had been following widened into an unbroken pool. The caliph had long since left the frigid waters of the rivulet and had taken to wandering alongside its silvery trail, leaving his own track of scattered droplets and oval impressions. It was here that the mascu chose to pause in his progression long enough to contemplate the lacy black outlines of branches in the looking-glass. It certainly made for an interesting sight to behold, for the hellion’s canvas was an equal match for the iridescent waters as his peltage seemingly gathered the faint moonlight, letting it shimmer as his muscles rippled to allow his muzzle to graze the mirror’s surface.
It was said that the fabled moorwater that was the source of the deities’ power flowed here in the inky streams of the Wildwood, yet this onyx phantom was already familiar with its mysterious powers. The spectral shimmer of his ebon coat could be attributed to the potent liquid, as was the even stranger abilities he possessed, invisible though they were and easy to conceal. Needless to say, he was an outsider among those whom had not tasted the sickly-sweet drink of the Moor—the ones that called themselves “Pure.” Not that he would have chosen to stay by such arrogance and self-proclaimed severance anyway; he was of a distant personage and it was not in his nature to waste his breath in a debate over the flawed logic of their creed.
After the brief moment passed, the incubus took to his progression once more, daggers carrying him in an easy gait to continue following the quicksilver path into the deepest reaches of the woods. It was difficult to tell if impatience or simply the waning night was the cause, but the demon allowed his strides to flow into an elegant canter, the lineage of his forefathers evident in the carriage of his proud crest and sure steps as his sable tresses rose like a shroud in his wake whilst he maneuvered over fallen limb and stone-lined stream alike. He traveled in this way, occasionally slowing to an effortless trot to maneuver thickets or an uphill climb, until the moon was had long since vanished beyond the horizon.
As the faintest of gray glows began to seep into the eastern sky, the ancient tangled trees of the Wildwood at last began to reluctantly part with their shadowy cloak of night. The spell of silence, too, was broken, for the far-off sound of rushing water could be heard beyond the brambles and twisted trees. Slowing to a walk, the vagabond finally wove through one more stand of trees and tangle of thorny underbrush to behold a truly rewarding sight.
Here, within the heart of the woods lay a series of waterfalls, falling in steps down a wide face of rock before they traveled away in swift currents. Mist rose from the waters and hung delicately suspended about the atmos, adding a ghostly touch to the milieu. Here and there an inky tree leaned over the falls, partially hidden in fog, but for the most part the roof of foliage was lifted. Harks pitched forward as the twilight stag reached the aqua’s edge, his ooids surveying the clearings that surrounded the falling water. Here at last was a suitable place to reside, a well-kept secret within the foreboding woods.
The hellion had come to his decision. Contemplating vision swept about one last time as threads were tossed to the side, signaling agile forelegs to part with the rocky turf as the stallion rose in a tall rear, arc curved with grace and pride. The earliest of morning light could be seen reflected in his pelt as he let a note of claiming pierce the frigid air of dawn. Retaining perfect balance with the occasional toss of a fore dagger and the dancelike movements of his hind legs, the specter effortlessly stayed aloft as the echoes of his call trailed off to become lost in the woodlands. Once again allowing all four limbs reunion with the topography, he appeared statuesque as he stood surveying the land that he claimed for his own. For now, the spectral shapes in the mist were the only audience to witness the passing of a true hellion, yet it was impossible to know what would arrive with the coming of the grey dawn.