Terra was a noble woman, who stood her ground and was not afraid of taking chances. She knew one being fearless or being daring were separate natures, and that she was the former, and it had predisposed her to supporting freedom and avoiding friction. She did not coax unto herself 'the against', she did not struggle. The only ropes that burnt her hands as she lost her grip were those within herself when putting others before her and consequently missing out <eyes closed, breath in and out, backed into a wall;"move on", she urged herself, gently> What had led her from her home, muddied her few garments and emboldened her. Blessings wore disguises, and she had been one herself, to those fragile little birds, even the great ones who spread their wings but were easily shot down, unpegged, slot. She was a nondescript blackbird, familiar with the greenery of forests, deep in their humid pastures, heavy with moisture, away from the world.
But everyone changes in character. Can evolve. Should, evolve, if given the nourishment, the conditions.
With her deep blue cloak billowing about her, she stood before the Forge, eyes not masking the thoughts behind them. She was careful to think on this, to be cautioned. A bow of her head and she walked within its gates, eyes downcast, and hands clasped before her. She walked slowly, boots a crisp noise on the damp ground from recent rain, the night she had arrived. It lingered, the fresh, revitalising scent of mulch and festivals, hinting at rebirth. She smiled as she walked. An impressive figure with her french horsehoe braid, tightened with scarlet twine, unspoilt coffee, the dark of those eyes, lifting to the sky, the surroundings, quietly absorbing.
But everyone changes in character. Can evolve. Should, evolve, if given the nourishment, the conditions.
With her deep blue cloak billowing about her, she stood before the Forge, eyes not masking the thoughts behind them. She was careful to think on this, to be cautioned. A bow of her head and she walked within its gates, eyes downcast, and hands clasped before her. She walked slowly, boots a crisp noise on the damp ground from recent rain, the night she had arrived. It lingered, the fresh, revitalising scent of mulch and festivals, hinting at rebirth. She smiled as she walked. An impressive figure with her french horsehoe braid, tightened with scarlet twine, unspoilt coffee, the dark of those eyes, lifting to the sky, the surroundings, quietly absorbing.