Post by L A C H on Mar 4, 2008 12:54:37 GMT -5
Sorry for the length and lameness... I'm doing this during English class at school. The ending really sucks since I'm super rushed... But I thought your post was fine.
Like a downy black feather drifting from a raven’s nest, a moth with wings of ebony silk landed to perch on Starling’s forehead. In an absolute juxtaposition to the fair, milky hue of the fur the moth rested on, it twittered its miniature quill antenna, inching up onto the flocculent ear of his mount. Not so subtle, the insect of night ornamented the yearling like a fairytale crown or perhaps a black magic rose; what a young mythical thing he was. A prince of darkness daring to tread into light was he, virtue and purity radiant from his perfectly argentite coat while the candor of his onyx adornment sweeping an air of sour-sweetness on him.
Shaking his femininely tapered muzzle, the Deorian adolescent exhibited the faintest glimmer of puzzlement in his eyes as the dark moth flittered away into the forest. Bathing in the first ripples of sunlight, Starling wondered why the midnight butterfly had not retired sooner: it was the only tarnishing smudge of coal in the pristine morning. He mused reasons, tossing them around idly as he wandered across the clearing upon his heron’s stilts and was therefore delayed in noticing the beautiful red fae across his path. She too disturbed the blank emptiness that was a white winter, but in a way which stirred up interest in the little boy's curious specs.
Once Starling spied the unfamiliar brandish of her rusty pelage, what an elegantly rich color, he was drawn closer. Much like a moth drawn to the light, he fluttered noiselessly towards her (although she was along his linear course already) in a sudden want of an introduction. His soft satin paws, blending seamlessly into the ivory powder, carried him in an almost ghostly drift; smoldering nobility and grace, he instead moved like a wraith. However, Starling was not displaying an eager or childishness, nothing but a casual-friendly smile hitching one corner of his poet’s lips to detract from his phantom-esque presence. Upon arrival, he dipped his velveteen muzzle in a charming bow, his chocolate-tinted nose nearly brushing the stranger's mitts.
Like a downy black feather drifting from a raven’s nest, a moth with wings of ebony silk landed to perch on Starling’s forehead. In an absolute juxtaposition to the fair, milky hue of the fur the moth rested on, it twittered its miniature quill antenna, inching up onto the flocculent ear of his mount. Not so subtle, the insect of night ornamented the yearling like a fairytale crown or perhaps a black magic rose; what a young mythical thing he was. A prince of darkness daring to tread into light was he, virtue and purity radiant from his perfectly argentite coat while the candor of his onyx adornment sweeping an air of sour-sweetness on him.
Shaking his femininely tapered muzzle, the Deorian adolescent exhibited the faintest glimmer of puzzlement in his eyes as the dark moth flittered away into the forest. Bathing in the first ripples of sunlight, Starling wondered why the midnight butterfly had not retired sooner: it was the only tarnishing smudge of coal in the pristine morning. He mused reasons, tossing them around idly as he wandered across the clearing upon his heron’s stilts and was therefore delayed in noticing the beautiful red fae across his path. She too disturbed the blank emptiness that was a white winter, but in a way which stirred up interest in the little boy's curious specs.
Once Starling spied the unfamiliar brandish of her rusty pelage, what an elegantly rich color, he was drawn closer. Much like a moth drawn to the light, he fluttered noiselessly towards her (although she was along his linear course already) in a sudden want of an introduction. His soft satin paws, blending seamlessly into the ivory powder, carried him in an almost ghostly drift; smoldering nobility and grace, he instead moved like a wraith. However, Starling was not displaying an eager or childishness, nothing but a casual-friendly smile hitching one corner of his poet’s lips to detract from his phantom-esque presence. Upon arrival, he dipped his velveteen muzzle in a charming bow, his chocolate-tinted nose nearly brushing the stranger's mitts.
