quork: A sketch of a raven, black on white. (Default)
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The horse was content. It ran in fields, it rolled in the dew-rich grass, and it frolicked through British copses. An idyllic life, for this horse.

It avoided the stone paths on the far sides of the hill, there. Those stone roads brought to mind places where everything was stone. No smells worth smelling, nothing to be eaten worth eating, no places to run worth running. That was a while ago.

So, too, did it avoid the deep waters in the bottom of the shallow, scooplike valley. Deep water was a source of fear. The horse did not remember why or how, just that it preferred to drink from the more shallow runnels and streams. Deep water was not good water. Deep water had precipitated a long, long run, though; out of the stone paths, to here. Here was not-stone. Here was good.


quork: A sketch of a raven, black on white. (Default)
Croárc ná Corvain

May 2012

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