tonight your memory burns like a f.ire Dec 28, 2012 22:21:44 GMT -5
Post by jereve on Dec 28, 2012 22:21:44 GMT -5
Defeat never has nor ever will be an option. To be defeated means that one is weak, and weakness simply does not flow in Leonidas’ blood. Leonidas Virtus Makhai: named for the great war heroes of the ages, for the victories and battle cries of the centuries. This name, this heritage and sacrifice was not meant to be lost in the crumbling despair of defeat. Nay, Leonidas was built for destiny, for greatness. Whether this means Leonidas will live up to this name or not can not yet be told. The young stallion of only six years has seen a lot in those years… including, but not limited to, defeat. The continuous degeneration of his mother’s mind took quite a toll on the stallion… no, not toll: the health of his mother has influenced him quite a bit. Leonidas is not fond of the terms “toll” or “stress.” They indicate weakness and vulnerability. A true soldier does not show either one of those qualities. A strong soldier is continually hardened by battle, grounded by duty and guided by instinct. But yet, here Leonidas finds himself, wondering through the dangerous Tanglevine Swamp where the memories of his family sting. They do not sting like the pain of a knife caressing the top layer of pelt but rather like a festering boil or burn that yelps in the steam of the water.
Pain is weakness leaving the body. Hadn’t he heard that somewhere? Perhaps once, in a distant memory of a chief, brutal and tasteless in the ears of a young colt. The fear pressed into the heart of Leonidas--the fear of his parents’ health--now seems silly and naïve. The chief did what he had to do in terms of ruling the Loxacin clan. Of course, there are things he could’ve done differently to spare the health of two very important clan members, but the clan was protected. Leonidas regards some actions of the chief as cowardly, as he could’ve stepped in more himself, but cannot truly blame the chief for the state of his weak mother. There was too much pressure on her from the start--the arranged mate, the heritage to press on, the continuous strive for improvement…all for what? Leonidas Virtus Makhai: the legend. The legend that is now wondering the countryside alone. He hasn’t spoken to another equine in over a year, but instead has survived off of the land, growing strong. Leonidas can only hope that, one day, he can be a better leader himself.
Sharply, Leonidas turns to avoid a dangerous grouping of Tanglevines. Most equines on Aeon avoid this area; it is simply not safe to the average horse. But Leonidas finished his adulthood in virtual exile on the outskirts of Aeon, including the Tanglevine Swamp where his mother took her last breath. She did not cry or speak, but simply used her last will and power to let her family know how much she loved them. A small, stinging sensation reaches the top of Leonidas’ pelt in remembrance before he pushes it back down, deep down inside his chest. A successful soldier does not bring his home to war or his war to his bed. A separation is needed for optimum performance in both areas so it is probably best that Leonidas only has one area to maintain. Tanglevines are extremely deceptive; they do not seem harmless to the untrained eye. For the normal equine, it would best to avoid all vines or the area altogether. Leonidas’ horns sit stiffly atop his cranium, making movements a tad tedious at times. Long, mangled plumes swirl with ivory and ebony slowly as he gingerly steps through the area, his cloven hooves digging deep into the terrain with each sure-footed step. The markings on his bodice dare not glow nor move at this placid time and stay the usual contrasting colors--or lack thereof. Stern acidic yellow visions search quietly through the area, tipped audits swiveling to catch any signs of life. While it may be true that there is hardly a soul in these parts of the lands--and that’s’ usually what Leonidas prefers--who knows? A small stir in the brush, a quick chirp of a bird…each sound could mean something’s coming. Nostrils flare in order to catch the drift of the wind, but Leonidas dare not sound a piercing cry. For, on the outskirts, he has learned that you might not always like what answers your call.
OOC:// open to anyone and anything; sorry the post is a tad crappy