- Invitation Status
- Look for groups
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per day
- One post per day
- Multiple posts per week
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Online Availability
- Available as all hell, but intensely paralyzed by ADHD
- Writing Levels
- Intermediate
- Adept
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Primarily Prefer Female
- Genres
- High Fantasy, Modern/Urban Fantasy, Sci-fi, Historical
Siffir, stealing another swig of mead from one of the bottles in hand and her limbs feeling a bit leaden, snapped out of her brain fog upon finally seeing Mel.
And the monstrous horse she'd just bonded.
"Storms, Mel, this inn't just some regular ol' wild horse, this bastard's huge!" Siffir circled Mel and Flick the 19th slowly, sizing the new horse up, "Tarra va'a praesen Wi'ild Oan!" She exclaimed after a moment.
"He is a gift from the Wild One," Siffir translated, stopping beside Mel and not taking her eyes off of Flick, "Six legs is a stormin' good number! It's good luck and extra wind! Wha's the word them old ladies int he fortune tents use...sawspicious, no, maybe it were unspicuous...no naw tha' either..." Siffir thought for a moment, then aanswered her own question, "Auspicious! Tha's the right word. Flick the 19th is a very auspicious wild horse, crafted finely from the Wild One's own hands!" She grinned, but the smile didn't reach her eyes, oddly enough.
She suddenly didn't feel as if she were completely tethered to the earth beneath her feet. She was there, but it was as if her peripheral vision was clouded, and something else were peering out. As if something had scooted her soul to the side a little bit off its seat to make room for itself. Siffir shivered a bit, not quite feeling like herself, but smiled at Mel again anyways in an attempt to shrug it off.
"They was awll outta the blackroot dumplin' soup, so I made 'em gimme these meat pies for the same price on account of my pain an' sufferin' from them bein' outta the soup- but tae be honest I tink they musta put somethin' funny in the mead to get back at me 'cos I'on't think my head's awll here, Mel. Maybe stay away from the mead. We donnae need a repeat of that week up in Gaelwinde, Dihara and Emryn would feckin' skin us!" She snickered.
A little bit of zazzed-up mead hadn't ever hurt her before, and so Siffir didn't find herself too worried about her odd feeling. A Wildling's system was innately, and incredibly more advanced than a regular human's, anyways. She'd be out of the woods in no time.
And the monstrous horse she'd just bonded.
"Storms, Mel, this inn't just some regular ol' wild horse, this bastard's huge!" Siffir circled Mel and Flick the 19th slowly, sizing the new horse up, "Tarra va'a praesen Wi'ild Oan!" She exclaimed after a moment.
"He is a gift from the Wild One," Siffir translated, stopping beside Mel and not taking her eyes off of Flick, "Six legs is a stormin' good number! It's good luck and extra wind! Wha's the word them old ladies int he fortune tents use...sawspicious, no, maybe it were unspicuous...no naw tha' either..." Siffir thought for a moment, then aanswered her own question, "Auspicious! Tha's the right word. Flick the 19th is a very auspicious wild horse, crafted finely from the Wild One's own hands!" She grinned, but the smile didn't reach her eyes, oddly enough.
She suddenly didn't feel as if she were completely tethered to the earth beneath her feet. She was there, but it was as if her peripheral vision was clouded, and something else were peering out. As if something had scooted her soul to the side a little bit off its seat to make room for itself. Siffir shivered a bit, not quite feeling like herself, but smiled at Mel again anyways in an attempt to shrug it off.
"They was awll outta the blackroot dumplin' soup, so I made 'em gimme these meat pies for the same price on account of my pain an' sufferin' from them bein' outta the soup- but tae be honest I tink they musta put somethin' funny in the mead to get back at me 'cos I'on't think my head's awll here, Mel. Maybe stay away from the mead. We donnae need a repeat of that week up in Gaelwinde, Dihara and Emryn would feckin' skin us!" She snickered.
A little bit of zazzed-up mead hadn't ever hurt her before, and so Siffir didn't find herself too worried about her odd feeling. A Wildling's system was innately, and incredibly more advanced than a regular human's, anyways. She'd be out of the woods in no time.
