Post by poppea on Jan 18, 2012 8:50:55 GMT -5
He ran, steady hoof beats making steady progress. The wind loved him, enveloped him, welcomed him as it whispered nothings and whistled for lost lovers in the sky. Once upon a time, as all stories should begin, such a steady progress was made just the same. Heavy clouds of dusty snow rose as heavy feet struck the ground, rising blindly up to make mountains in the sky, great mansions of air that held aloft their wings and saluted the horizon. Tinged with pink and grey, orange, green, red, yellow, nacre and peach – the sky shone with its own taste of suppressed desire, and the clouds were anything but white. There was never a plain white cloud in existence, just as there had never been a black horse – or a green plant. By placing a thing in such a black and white term, you swallow its possibility. And thus, cruelly circumscribed you limit it, and then destroy any hope it had of being any other colour. There is more in heaven an earth horatio, then your logic can confound’
He was not used to this world, this land of all lands so filled with its divisions. When the world was right and the sun had really shone, he had known a land free from such. Had loved it, anticipated ruling it - but a king is never born, but made. And that is not a simple process.
Auberon was made of crème and chocolate. His mane flowed easy in the breeze, a rich thick yellowing white that appeared to be the precise un-burnt shade of a Crème Brule. Through it flowed the touch of snow, a frosty kiss of organdie blond, the yellowing flash of darker saffron and even the odd touch of rich aureate ochre. His coat and shoes were finer still, a dark brown shade that could never be fit left at such simple words. Even thickly garnished in his winter coat, the smooth shell of fur rippled over the muscles it encased, along the dip of his stomach it let a little orange glow, there was a dull shining gleam that whispered along the line of his stomach. Thickset shoulders bore him across this plain with surprising grace, managing to turn the steady heavy beat into the rhythm of a drum.
His pelt was crisscrossed with scars, the clear mark of a heavy print was visible on his hind, an imperfect break in the fluid motion of his flesh. And along the long left side of his ribs, was a raised rib. His shoulders were lightly battered with scars, places were bright angry teeth once met soft flesh with intention of ripping, others where callous hooves were once thrown, and more than a few bitten deep deliberately so to remind him of his former bride… His face had remained reasonable unscathed however, the dark mark beside his muzzle being one of the few across his face… and the one beneath his eye… and the other under his chin…. There was no reason pointing out every scar on his body and underlining it in red – they existed, as did he, and oddly, they did nothing to decrease his perfection.
It was his eyes that stood most defiantly apart from his chocolate-coated exterior, although he may be scarred and his beauty impaired – it had always been his eyes. Stern, sad, wise – a grey so delicate and yet so dark it seemed all silver and snowflakes at the same time. Eyes forced to watch as legends were slain, to focus as mares slew foals, maddened genius flung itself from cliffs, and worst of all – as a nation consumed with belief rode hard into the yawning mouth of death.
He was a handsome beast – tall for his type, and startlingly marked. He looked like a chocolate box horse, painted many years ago by idle human hands desperate to create something worthy, desperate to create something memorable, but the tins face had been so battered and worn, that now it was as though his blatant beauties were obscured. A veil, to protect him from the world, maybe? But no, no stallion so keen and intent on being remembered, on being remarkable – would let such a thing as perceived ugliness stop him. He bore his scars with a heavy heart not because they altered his appearance, but because they reminded him. He had failed, and so he would always have to wear these chalk drawn lines. He failed a whole nation, allowed a once great kingdom to fall all for a long fled mare – this was the shame he wore on his body.
Yet, as a stallion that could never so easily give in or give up – that was not the end of his tale. Although many a time he wished for the strength to flee from his failures, he never could. Deep set within, where many horses carry their secret passions or the first story their dam ever told, is an ideal that prevents so simple a spilling of blood. Some point, long ago, too far away for him to remember, he was taught the old ways. Its how he knew when he entered this land what to make of it, it’s the feeling that lead him to this world of its own, to this totally different sphere of existence. Teaching foals how life is sacred, how magic still exists in private quiet places, when the apples grow ripest and which berry poisons the foal. Down, in the deepest essence of him, driving him to live and carry on – is the belief that there is more.
More what? You might well wonder, for little do we know, but the word – like hope – is embarrassed, and will tell me no more this eve.
The deep wood encasing the world was soft and inviting, and as soon as he began to journey through it, he knew of what it reminded him. The bitter sweetness of this memory consumed his attention, for it was a hungry and attention starved beast. Auberon moved with instinct among the pines and wooded silvers, mind too consumed to pay attention. Once he ran through woods like this. Once he had chased a mare through them. Once he had caught her, and with a poison leaden tongue attempted to strip her of her rudeness and bile. And once he had been comforted by her, loved her, and needed her – and all in a wood just as fine as this one.
Yet to spend ones days, endlessly wandering through corpses of trees, it was not the most promising of notions. Yet the tall trees began to thin, and the soft sweet smell of a running stream lulled his senses, and prevented him from turning. His friend, the wind, ran away from him them – desperate to be chased once more. But the cold had set in, and his bones were ablaze with curiosity and wonderment, so petty a breeze would not seduce him again.
He noticed with not undue attention how cold this world was, having run already through something of a tropical paridise he was surprised to find such a winter worn place. The snow hung heavy on the boughs of tall trees, the wind bit flesh as it passed on by, frost had fingered each half left leaf with a kiss of silver diamond grey. The high mountains on either side of this deep forrest provided ample evidence of the places wintery enclosure. But this stallion knew, that should he chose to plunge deeper into this cold place he would find some small drop of springtime. But the cold was beggining to burn his battered coat, and the promise of bare warmth was beggining to woo him. But there was something more… there was a taste to this empty little world that he had not expected. How can a place smell so strongly of loneliness? How can it be so fine a land and yet contain no happiness within it? He was intrigued, and therefore could not reject the world he found himself inside. There was too little of it, yet, to make up his mind.
He recognised in this place the same broken loneliness that he felt in himself. He recognised in it a plce to belong. Finally reachign the centre of the wood, his view was assaulted with a grand open plain, the cold snow having hit only small areas and brilliant parts of springy grass pressing for attention. He knew this was to be his new land. And perhaps, the land and he would end eachother's unhappiness.
"Mine."
claimed!
DESCRIPTION:
Deep within the cleft between two grand mountains, lurks a wooded forest of tall pines and dry winter born trees. Should you weave through the crowded tree's, should you plunder so bravely on through the gathering darkness, past the stinging attack of snowflakes that somehow managed to pervade the tight branches - you are rewarded by the wide, sheltered meadowland hidden at the heart of the forest. Springy snowgrass, a tricking river, heavy evergreen's to shelter from the falling snows, a tiny heaven. And see! deep within the meshed grazing land, tiny star shaped flowers litter the floor. Tender young herbs, tasty new shoots - and finest of all, the grove of appletree's whose small, tangy fruit reward the inhabitants of such a cold little land. A haven to all who struggle to find it.
King: Auberon.
