Post by Brady on Nov 30, 2008 21:31:01 GMT -5
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Eyewitness account…[/size][/b]
There's a saying that goes, "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift, which is why it is called the present."
Had that horse lived in my today, they never would have experienced such foolish thoughts.
The gale is biting. It lashes at my face, ravaging my sensitive flesh with claws that I cannot resist. It attacks my vulnerability, and ruthlessly pillages my weaknesses. I feel the weight of my body lessen, and my fragile bones begin to protrude from my sides, like ridges caging my soul inside this endless torture. The grass has long since frozen over; it has turned into impossible stone that, should I attempt to consume it, rips my throat until blood is all that fills my stomach. The cold is like a poison in my veins. It turns my blood to sludge, and every step is filled with such agony that I stand for hours in one place. I can barely feel my hooves, for blood has scarcely circulated to them. I fear I am going lame, but I cannot take another step, lest I shatter to a million pieces. The water has become as sturdy as the earth. A stampede could thunder across its surface without leaving a crack in its unhindered hide. I forget the taste of liquid, the smell of grass, the warmth of sunshine. The sun itself has been hidden behind the clouds, too afraid to gaze down at the wreckage below. The moon casts its silvery rays at night, but it does naught but glimmer across the everlasting canvas of snow and frost, nothing but a cold, unwelcoming presence that provides little comfort. I feel more alone than ever before. The desolate land I once called home has become a prison I cannot escape. My son has left me, claimed by the ice, just one of many. My last friend left me to try and travel across the ice... he said he might find a new land, somewhere that fares better than here. But if he reaches anywhere better than here, wouldn't the ocean be water there? I am sure my friend has drowned, or has become the victim of a worse fate, though I find it hard to imagine one worse than that. The trees are bare, their bark the last remnant of nutrition we have, and already that is scant. No one dares breed, for who could be so cruel as to bring an innocent foal into this torment? Besides, it would be a death wish. Any pregnant mare has died in giving birth, and her foal has soon followed, unable to take the frigid temperature that I myself am slowly becoming accustomed to. Should this continue, I will be more an animal of the arctic than an animal belonging to a tropical island. Who will save us, or are we all destined to die?
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Eyewitness account…[/size][/b]
There's a saying that goes, "Yesterday is history, tomorrow is a mystery, but today is a gift, which is why it is called the present."
Had that horse lived in my today, they never would have experienced such foolish thoughts.
The gale is biting. It lashes at my face, ravaging my sensitive flesh with claws that I cannot resist. It attacks my vulnerability, and ruthlessly pillages my weaknesses. I feel the weight of my body lessen, and my fragile bones begin to protrude from my sides, like ridges caging my soul inside this endless torture. The grass has long since frozen over; it has turned into impossible stone that, should I attempt to consume it, rips my throat until blood is all that fills my stomach. The cold is like a poison in my veins. It turns my blood to sludge, and every step is filled with such agony that I stand for hours in one place. I can barely feel my hooves, for blood has scarcely circulated to them. I fear I am going lame, but I cannot take another step, lest I shatter to a million pieces. The water has become as sturdy as the earth. A stampede could thunder across its surface without leaving a crack in its unhindered hide. I forget the taste of liquid, the smell of grass, the warmth of sunshine. The sun itself has been hidden behind the clouds, too afraid to gaze down at the wreckage below. The moon casts its silvery rays at night, but it does naught but glimmer across the everlasting canvas of snow and frost, nothing but a cold, unwelcoming presence that provides little comfort. I feel more alone than ever before. The desolate land I once called home has become a prison I cannot escape. My son has left me, claimed by the ice, just one of many. My last friend left me to try and travel across the ice... he said he might find a new land, somewhere that fares better than here. But if he reaches anywhere better than here, wouldn't the ocean be water there? I am sure my friend has drowned, or has become the victim of a worse fate, though I find it hard to imagine one worse than that. The trees are bare, their bark the last remnant of nutrition we have, and already that is scant. No one dares breed, for who could be so cruel as to bring an innocent foal into this torment? Besides, it would be a death wish. Any pregnant mare has died in giving birth, and her foal has soon followed, unable to take the frigid temperature that I myself am slowly becoming accustomed to. Should this continue, I will be more an animal of the arctic than an animal belonging to a tropical island. Who will save us, or are we all destined to die?
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The philosophers tell us stories that arouse a fear unlike any I have ever experienced. They say that the magic will extend its boundaries. They explain the power of the magic in percentages, guessing that the current percentage is around fifteen. They say that, should it near fifty, the world will be almost half overcome, and we will no longer be suffering from cold, but from blistering heat, our hides licked by flames.
We have no way to prove it, for none of us dare give birth, but the philosophers predict that foals born during this time will be affected in ways no normal horse should be...
They tell us they might be able to fly. Breathe fire. Hear thoughts. They say our children might have colors seen on flowers. They tell us... our babies might be mutants.
We have no way to prove it, for none of us dare give birth, but the philosophers predict that foals born during this time will be affected in ways no normal horse should be...
They tell us they might be able to fly. Breathe fire. Hear thoughts. They say our children might have colors seen on flowers. They tell us... our babies might be mutants.
-Rules
-Affiliation + Advertisements
-Rules on Affiliating
Active-
Available Territories-
Unique plotline-
Redesigned-
Numerous members-
A site with a past! ;-) (Oh, yea, we’ve been there, done that!)-