Dancer of the Autumn Fields --
Born to the Song of the Rainbow III (Hint of Cresting Sunlight x Points of Broken Soil)
Currently a member of the Song of the Autumn Foliage
Dancer of the Autumn Fields: The air was heavy with moisture, another autumn rain having just ceased; the late afternoon sun warmed the fields, rich and colorful with the harvest, and a cooling breeze carried aloft with it smells of fall: windfall apples, pumpkin, late hay, the more subtle scent of dying foliage. Everywhere is a collage of color; vermillion, saffron, umber, cinnamon, nut-brown, gold, crimson; everywhere nature dons her best and brightest for a grand hurrah before the snows of winter.
Dancer stepped forward lightly, with that contrained eagerness and energy that autumn instills; the invigoration of a crisp breeze and field abalze with color. Dying grass bent underfoot, covered in leaves; nearby a mouse tried to rush away in panic, vanishing into the tunneled grass, dropping the bit of corn-cob it had been gnawing on, a leftover from a late summer harvest, now a feast for wildlife preparing for winter. Rain clung to her foot-tufts and made them cold and sodden, while her spotted back basked pleasantly in the sunshine.
She continued on her way, enjoying other signs of wildlife; more mice, birds also hunting out grain; raptors, come to prey on the smaller birds and rodents. However, her goal was the maze field, where stalks stood taller than she, and made a natural maze (no strictly-straight rows here, no!); this field was planted not for harvest, but as a food source for local wildlife in winter. Already well-picked, the erractic and dense field was a labyrinth of fun, a secret world set apart. She imagined it a celebration of all that was Autumn; she came here in late afternoon, when long shadows fell and made the maze more interesting, more complex.
Incidentally....it ALSO made a great hiding place from other Samanayrs who insisted she should help out a LITTLE more than she was, when work was a cruel agony that kept her from fields smelling of sun-baked pumpkin and apple cider, and from the corn-mazes and leaf piles!
It wasn't that she was irresponsible; it was just that nature and autumn, together, were a siren's call she couldn't resist. Of course, as lovely as the late afternoon sun was, casting dappled shadows everywhere and setting translucent leaves aflame, it was a pale candle in comparison to early morning, when the sunrise broke through low patches of mist that clung to low shrubs and gress, and drifted over the ponds. Sound was slightly muted and distorted, as in deference to those still abed, and even the most familiar sights seemed shrouded in mystery.
Then, as the sun dispelled the mist, every leaf, stem, and blade of grass was gemmed with dew; everything from climbing vine to rotted stump was transformed to a wealth of treasure.
Flight stepped out of the woods that edged the south border of the field, interrupting Dancer's thoughts; her own eyes lingered with amusement on Dancer's distant expression. "Let me guess, writing poetry about fall again?" she asked with dry humor, as she was often the one to listen to Dancer's first raw, sketchy drafts of poetry. Not that she really minded; she loved autumn as much as Dancer did, though she had not the knack of capturing it in words, prose or otherwise. And while her whimsical friend was still learning the basics of rhyme and verse and meter, here and there would fall a gem of thought, like finding a perfect, unblemished apple among the windfalls.
"I wasn't writing, I was just -
enjoying," Dancer explained, "Just breathing, loving, living,
experiencing fall. Besides," she added with a smile for her friend, "I can write all winter about it, when the storms are too bad to venture outdoors!"
"Perhaps we need to teach you to ski!" Flight bantered, with mock horror at being trapped indoors with a
poet. "And snowshoe, and ice fish, and - "
"Oh hush, you!"
Flight wouldn't have admitted it for the world, but she was looking forward to it.
~*~*~*~*~
Flint of the Broken Stone--
Not everyone has a story to tell; or rather, not everyone has a story that's ready to tell. Their life, perhaps, is just begun; a blank
slate, you could say. A wealth of possibility, a myriad maybes from the most mudane to the freely fanciful. And others - others have finished their tale. While theirs is a linear tale, at the same time there is a clear beauty and compelling power of a life well lived, a tale well-told, no matter if the ending is the same, no matter how many times you tell it. A story, they say, carved in stone, unchanging from beginning to end.
Flint, however - she has a different story. She has a story, no doubt, but it's a broken, scattered story, a patchwork tale of a thousand pieces that never quite fit together. Her memory is full of holes; missing is a day here, something she did there. She has no tragic story of suffering or loss to explain her memory; it is what it is.
When she tells you her story, it's never the same. It's not that she's lying; she's as truthful as she can be. But some days she remembers this, and some days that. It can be difficult to befriend her, but she's always interesting to know.
Sometimes, the gaps in her memory frustrate her, driving her to tears and angry frustration. "I should know this! I knew this yesterday!" Most of the time, though, she still smiles when she's forgotten something important. "Sooner or later, I'll remember it, I'm sure, when it's important to remember. See, today it's important to remember to stretch, and smile, and smell the flowers, and I remember what flowers are which. That's an important thing to remember. This flower, for example, makes a very nice tea."
And sometimes, she sets her sunny personality aside and confesses, seriously, to those she calls friend, "Sometimes I think it must be a blessing. I can live every day in the present, because, by and large, I don't have to carry past mistakes with me. At least, I don't think I do, but I could be forgetting that."
It's not that she forgets
everything; in fact, she has a rather good memory. It's just on completely random recall. She'll fail a test put to her, but later, in a test on history, she'll suddenly remember, "Oh, this time last year I spilled tea accidentally!" The more trivial the memory, the better the chance of recall. Song and foaling gifts are late or early, but rarely on time; birthdays sometimes celebrated almost a year ahead or behind for her. It's a source of frustration for those close to her, but it's hard to stay angry with her; she means no harm. And she truly cannot help her memory.
Some Samanayrs - like all the newborn foals - their story is a blank slate, a story just beginning. Others who have died: their story is complete, a tale etched in stone.
But Flint of the Broken Stone, her story is a shattered slate, each piece holding a different piece of her history. Every time she tells her story, it's different. It can be difficult to befriend her, but she's always interesting to know...
~*~*~*~*~
Splash of the River's Bend --
Splash is a good friend of Flint; not because she can't remember, but because, quite often, she
chooses not to remember.
Time, she says, is ephemeral; the past is water under the bridge. Whether the present is a gentle rain or a raging flood, it soon passes by.
Splash is rather fond of water-themed analogies, you see.
Her anger, when it is roused, burns hot and fast, and as quickly is gone. But she's hard to anger; the trick, she says, is to imagine anger like rain, and then pretend you have feathers, and let the water 'roll right off'. "Give yourself a good ol' shake, shake the bad feelings away, and move on."
She holds similar thoughts on life: "Love is like a river, it provides something essential everyone needs. Everyone is capable of being a source of this river, but for various reasons some people put a dam in their river so not everyone can 'drink'. Or sometimes their heart is wounded, and their love becomes bitter and poisonous. But I believe there is a river for everyone to drink at, no matter who you are, there's a river that will welcome you."
When asked if she's found her river, she smiles cheerily. "I've no idea, but I can tell you that I'm in over my head, and have been all my life, and that's exactly how I like it!"
She lives, she loves, she tales life in stride - or stroke? While others are getting their feet wet, she dives right in. Sometimes it means she makes mistakes, and while she admits regret to some of these, she says she wouldn't change who she is. "Water under the bridge, and all that. Sometimes I get washed up by my mistakes, but I've never yet been washed out by them, and you know, sometimes some pearl of wisdom is washed up with me!" She winks and laughs as she says this.
I would have asked more, but she's moved on already - water only stands still when imprisoned or frozen, you know - and like the flowing river, she's full of energy and rapidly changing moods. Ahead of me, I see her now, her head high, her mane and tail waving in the breeze. The cerulean blue fading to white, like spindrift atop the waves, and her laughter hangs on the air like the gentle babbling of a cheerful brook.
Oh dear, her wave of water-based metaphors and similies seems to have caught me in its wake! T_T
~*~*~*~*~
Mirage of the Endless Desert --
A mirage is, by definition, an illusion. Fortunately, Mirage himself is not an illusion. However he has a very bad habit of chasing after illusions. Not the type found in the desert, fainting from heat and dehydration, but the illusions of spirit and aspirations. Not quite delusions of grandeur, but definitely a penchant for setting unattainable goals.
It's not that Mirage is egotistical, just that he - well, he dreams big. The most beautiful Samanayr females in a Song of his own, someday. To become famous for an awe-inspiring poet (that, I confess, is one of his most wild pipe-dreams, his poetry is utter tripe and good only for a laugh). To find a way to fly - well, alright,
most of his dreams are pipe-dreams.
The problem with this habit of impossible dreams is that he really truly believes they are possible, and happily shares his visions and percieved milestones with others. "I just spoke with the most amazingly beautiful Samanayr mare! I am sure she will be among the first to ask to join my Song someday!" he chatters enthusiastically, to those who listen to him. Or, "I made myself wings today by weaving leaves together! Didn't manage much more than a nice breeze, but it's a start!" Never mind that said 'wings' were little more than fans.
His propensity for wildly impossible goals frequently makes him a source of humor for other Sams, and occassionally (well, more than occasionally) the butt of more mean-spirited jeers and sometimes pranks. Thankfully, he is naïve and quite a bit oblivious to negativity. It's possible that the part of his mind that sees things as negative was miswired, so that not only does he seem incapable of recognising negativity, but also inable to consider his dreams in a negative light - e.g., impossible.
Other Sams seem to find him either annoying or stupid, translating his wild dreams as hot air, or foundless boasting. But generally he's taken in good humor, the same as he greets everyone; positively, an eternal optimist to the utter extreme.
I suppose that's really the best way to describe him. He can look at a glass that's empty and still see it as overflowing, because in his head it's a certainty that someday soon it
will be! Even when everyone else looks at the empty glass and assumes he's hallucinating. A mirage of hope, in an endless desert of successes.
There are certainly worse ways to live than a life of blind, unshakeable optimism. Many might even envy him. I certainly do!
(gah, these seemed much longer in word doc T_T Now they seem so short!! 2,000+ words in word doc, each about one page!
Also Edited to add: Was advised to list in order of favourites. That is really, really, REALLY hard to do. Ideally, one stallion and one mare would be a dream come true, for while I have a stallion he is a memorial, and monogamous. So Mirage would be likely be first. Second....it's a very tough choice between Flint and Dancer, but I think Flint wins out by the narrowest of margins, because I've fallen in love with my idea of her character. Dancer next, for I love Autumn like nobody's business - ever seen me dancing in glee in an apple orchard? No? Too bad, then - followed by the quirky Splash. Honestly, I love them all, but shan't be selfish. The problem with these sorts of events is that, in developing their personality, you fall in love with them!)
))
) Her stance says "Who do you think you ayre, tyrespasseyr."
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