i'm not afraid of god, i am afraid of man
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she/they
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161 posts
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points
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Weanling
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Post by JUNI! on Feb 14, 2024 20:07:42 GMT -7
b e l l a m y
panhaendeline was a place not much unlike where he hailed from; ruins of something long forgotten. that feeling brought him peace in some ways, though in others was just a bitter reminder of the past. atop a small hill, the bay brute stood, bad eye to the treeline while the other scanned tombstones. it wasn't often that he saw other horses here, mostly mere passerbyers, leaving him wondering where else they congregated in the lands of WE. from what he'd seen so far, it was expansive, but as a newcomer he felt it best to settle up somewhere quiet. in truth, bellamy didn't want the company, anyway. it had been a long time since he'd last gone out of his way to talk to another. a few times did he stop strangers to ask for directions, doing his best to avoid prying eyes. he didn't blame others. the brute was scarred from head to flank, and some days it was easy to let his inky tendrils cover the bad eye, but it wasn't always avoidable when you cross someone's path by accident. their curiosities were fleeting, nobody bothered to ask and bellamy kept all communication short, and sweet. lost in his thoughts, a short breeze passed by his nares, head lifting to take full view of panhaendeline in it's glory. bellamy admired the way the afternoon sun glinted off the dead grass and marbles. had he been paying attention to his surroundings, he may have caught wind of the approaching stranger, eyes closing as the sun enveloped his mahogany body.
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Weanling
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Post by faeriiefox on Feb 15, 2024 9:05:35 GMT -7
Anwen's steps were cautious as she approached the ruins of this dead place. Panhaendeline had always boths cared her and amde her curious about what had happened her back in the days. What kind of palce had this been? It was when she entered the foggy graveyard that she saw the silhouette of someone else. She stopped in her tracks, raising her head to look up at him properly. A brute it seemed, covered in scars and inkly tresses of seemingly tangled hair.
Keeping a safe distance, she observed him silently, her heart pounding in her chest, fearful and ready to run if he seemed dangerous. In many ways she was sick of feeling so helpless and unsure of everything and everyone, but it came to her like an instict. She was afraid of being hurt once more, and she felt so weak. She had noticed the scars that adorned his form, evidence of battles fought and hardships endured. Despite the distance between them, she felt a strange connection to this stranger, a kinship born from shared experiences of pain and solitude.
Anwen remained rooted to the spot, her gaze never wavering from the stallion as she studied him intently. A part of her wanted to puff her chest out and announce that she was there, be friendly like she knew she probably could be, but another, much bigger part, was fearful with a heart pounding so hard she could almost hear it. Her fathers words were spinning through her constantly. Pitiful. Instead, she watched silently, her presence a silent reminder that he was not alone in this desolate place.
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