TIERNEY

●●MEETING THE MAKER
alias: whipster or whip
histories: forever boy.

●●MAKING A MARK
moniker: tierney
age: three
bloodlines: arabian x gypsy vanner

●●KEEPING UP APPEARANCES
physical description:

buttermilk buckskin, coffee brown eyes, wide and jagged blaze with both hind stockings, distinct dappling during summer months, thin long and stringy auburn mane and tail, sunbleached to look this way, thin with broad chest and thick neck from gypsy lines but lean and thin from arab, fourteen two hands tall, upright in neck and chest as well

traits description

curious, daring, new, always up for a challenge, sarcastic, easily annoyed, confident, indifferent though attempts to he friendly, more outgoing and trustworthy to those she knows or is used to, hard working, determined, traditional, a tease, sexual

●●SHOW US WHAT YOU'VE GOT
sample post:

She was gone, my desert flower; the sun-kissed nobody that, even with my failing stability of emotions, could warm my cold heart. The Forever Boy, me. I felt that sullen void, but never spoke of it or shed a single tear. Life had a funny way of working, and I knew of her life before here and all those things that had happened. Did God take her because she had fulfilled her purpose, finally? I didn't know. So now, instead of observing the ocean of sand by my mothers side, I spent it standing close to father, watching his rock hard expression. He was not one for good conversation, I had to admit. None the less, I learned a lot. The way he ruled over a herd that had fallen apart. Who did he have now? Nissa? Fuck her. Whatever part of me could still feel, felt bitter toward the black she beast. She was the woman who had taken my mothers place; stolen underneath her, even if that wasn't the case. I wasn't even close to them. Any of them. My day had been directed toward Foggy Hills, long spindle legs carrying me the way from the desert. Nobody lived here anymore ... The king; gone. His family; gone. But what did he have to leave behind? That useless daughter of his and his whore of a son. Rounding a sharp turn from the base of a hill, I took a moment to look about and examine what was around me. Nothing special. It never really was, anyway.

I could never help but wonder about the future. Where would I be? And more importantly ... who would I be at that time? Things were constantly changing. Nothing was ever the same. Even now, compared to then, I stood a different and less tolerable man. Almost two years old, and already I could not help but despise the world and inner shells of all those others. Sending a scowl toward the skies, I tossed my cranium to the side and started off again. Fast paced and determined was all it took. I could feel a vague presence here suddenly, one I had not felt in so long. Rethaya always hovered - gasped for my attention as if she was drowning. Rarely did I ever say a word, aside from the usual conversation. I never dare flee from her. The brown eyed girl was mine, just as I was hers, in that sick little thing that some could have called love. Did love involve possessivity? Did lovers want to kill the other slowly, fuck them like an animal, and hold them until the days blended to nights? I don't think I was ever level headed, eternally, when it came to her. My half sister, my fathers child, the fire in my chest and the only sense of stability. No, there was no mistaking her tension. That same tension caused my tendrils to change course, with skin that frayed like wires at the thought of her touch.

I hated her for what she did to me. The way my chest quivered and stomach tied in knots. The worry when she was not close. All those things that I never dare let her, or anyone, see. I made my way through the snow dusted land, trying my best to feel her there. Having failed hearing had pros and cons; my senses were heightened, I knew that for sure. Keeping up with myself, I took a second to close green eyes and imagine her. She always drowned in my dreams. Drowned in the attention she sought. I loved watching her receive a fix. She was addicted, like a whore to sex or a mean girl to fame. She was a breath of fresh air to my swollen lungs, and I may have smiled at her name if my lips weren't plastered to a straight line. And my journey was not long. I saw her coming as soon as she was close enough. The tobiano gypsy. I exhaled sharp, and my legs stopped instinctively, green eyes searching her. For bumps of bruises or an excuse to grip her throat. My monotone voice was the only thing I heard, well, felt. "Rethaya."