Halcyon Flats
Possible trigger: BDD
05-15-2018, 05:26 AM
Zahra & Ilham
It was pride that turned angels into devils
Perhaps her arrival upon the glassy, gleaming stretch of flat had slipped by the other’s notice altogether; it certainly seemed so. Those bright-tinted hooves, even visible through the mist across the way, which were driving through sandy-loam with knife-like intent, looked to startle and slow and the head aboard the pumping length of neck above, lead forth a swift swivel until she faced a new forward. All of this, presumably, was to seek the source of the voice which summoned notice - Zahra.
The painted woman, standing otherwise quietly in the rain, was rather taken aback by the savage nature of the greeting she received, if it could be called that at all. Irritability, nay - outrage - was sprawled through the other's part veiled features (a forelock with fading hue swept like a restless pendulum across), and the glint in the wildly vexed glare returned, was nothing short of threatening. Zahra’s own posture stiffened, retaliating defensively, actively, to the less than humble display ahead and her amicable eye narrowed warily.
The stranger snapped harshly, her tone unnecessarily rude, and black and white wings gathered nearer, upwards, inflating the outwards portrayal of herself subconsciously; boldly. There was something unsettlingly predatory about the demeanour of pegasus before her, yet the weaver held her ground firmly - she was an unruly wreck no longer. It was for that very reason that Zahra challenged her aggressor’s tone, whatever reason founded such behaviour.
“Mind your tone stranger,” she began, voice level and poised, though elevated enough to penetrate the miserable weather. “I will lower my guard, if you lower yours…” Zahra dared a step forward and lowered the cautious stance of her wings; her pale eyes were ever heedful of her company's hostile aura. There were feathers dressing four shoulders, hers and this mare’s, which gave them true grounds for harmony - birds of a feather, or so the saying went.
The painted woman, standing otherwise quietly in the rain, was rather taken aback by the savage nature of the greeting she received, if it could be called that at all. Irritability, nay - outrage - was sprawled through the other's part veiled features (a forelock with fading hue swept like a restless pendulum across), and the glint in the wildly vexed glare returned, was nothing short of threatening. Zahra’s own posture stiffened, retaliating defensively, actively, to the less than humble display ahead and her amicable eye narrowed warily.
The stranger snapped harshly, her tone unnecessarily rude, and black and white wings gathered nearer, upwards, inflating the outwards portrayal of herself subconsciously; boldly. There was something unsettlingly predatory about the demeanour of pegasus before her, yet the weaver held her ground firmly - she was an unruly wreck no longer. It was for that very reason that Zahra challenged her aggressor’s tone, whatever reason founded such behaviour.
“Mind your tone stranger,” she began, voice level and poised, though elevated enough to penetrate the miserable weather. “I will lower my guard, if you lower yours…” Zahra dared a step forward and lowered the cautious stance of her wings; her pale eyes were ever heedful of her company's hostile aura. There were feathers dressing four shoulders, hers and this mare’s, which gave them true grounds for harmony - birds of a feather, or so the saying went.
