♛COME WITH ME NOW

●●MEETING THE MAKER
alias: Jessi
histories: Fancy

●●MAKING A MARK
moniker: Navarre
age: 11 years old
bloodlines: Iberian Warmblood (Andalusian x Quarter Horse)

●●KEEPING UP APPEARANCES
physical description:

Lean like his Andalusian father with the rippling muscles of his mother, he is the essence of a prime stallion. His light bay coat is marked with only four white socks. In the days of warm, his coat will get noticeably darker and there may be a chance to see the faded white star on his forehead. The left eye is a startling solid black(something he had been blessed with at birth; while he can't see a damn thing out of it, he claims to be able to see things out of that eye that others can't), while the other is a dark brown. Silky black hair with soft brown accents runs down his neck; it has only just begun to become visually straggly. The subtle wavy hairs in his tail just barely touch the ground, dancing in even the slightest breeze, swishing with every flex of his loins. When he moves there is no hesitation in his step; when he speaks there is no faltering in his words, only ambition and confidence and certainty. Navarre is a natural born leader with no physical flaws.

Navarre in his summer attire

While Navarre is quite the eye-catcher, like a bright, bold book cover just begging to be opened, the story inside isn't anything special or exciting. The majority of the time he wears a thin façade of rough emotion and understanding. He chooses to make those around him believe that he cares, when really he is too self-centered to care about anyone else. He will never admit it, though. He probably isn't even truly aware of what he's doing, probably having giving some false pretenses behind every action, every word. In his mind, he is never wrong, he cannot do wrong; he can only do right. The only time Navarre's true self can be seen is when he's alone, lost in the deepest of thoughts (which is not very often). Very rarely will he go off on his own, in hopes to slip away into one of those thoughts, one of those memories that lingers like a bad storm. When and if caught in such a moment, he can be unpredictable.

She sat cross-legged on the little front porch, slowly breathing in the salty sea air as she scribbled down words in her notebook. The notebook had multiple horses running across the cover and, every time she but glanced at them, she would giggle softly. In the twelve years this petite girl had been in this world, she had never owned a horse. They were her most favorite animal of all time, but they were also expensive and required a lot of responsibility. A dog wasn't even nearly as much work as a horse, though they were still pretty demanding. The pencil had stopped scribbling and she let it fall onto the pages, her eyes tiredly following the wooden writing utensil as it fell to the porch beside her. She didn't bother to pick it up. A yawn spread across her face, the sun just peaking over the horizon and stretching over the ocean, reaching for her, but she turned away from the extending light. She closed her notebook with a soft thud of which muffled her gentle sigh. Baby blue eyes stared at the cover, at the multiple horses running in unison. Automatically, her brain began to list off the color of each horses' coat: dark bay, palomino, chestnut, sooty buckskin, dapple grey, light grey, sooty black, dun...for some reason, her eyes kept gliding back over the sooty buckskin and, eventually, that was all she could think of or look at. The dark hair was flying all around the horse's head and neck, wrapping around his back legs as he kicked them up in the air. Such a powerful image, and it wasn't even that big. She thought about the person who probably captured the shot and how lucky they were to have such a rewarding hobby. First she picked up the fallen pencil and then she picked herself up, noting how much the sun had risen already in the past five minutes. School would be starting in a few hours, and she hadn't even finished the paper she was supposed to write over the summer. The same excuse kept popping up: "I didn't have anything to write about." Only thing, though, was that it wasn't an excuse. It was the truth. 

Walking back into the house, she noted her mother in the kitchen with her head stuffed in a cupboard. In search of coffee, no doubt. Any kind of coffee; when mother was out of coffee, she was use anything as a substitute. Including the occasional alcoholic beverage. She could never understand how her mother could touch the substance so early in the morning, but she didn't really care enough to figure it out. She was shuffling back towards her room when the gurgling sound of someone clearing their throat after taking a sip of something stopped her. Looking over her shoulder, it became apparent that her mother was actually starring at her. Funny, this was probably the longest her mother had ever seemed to take interest in her. "What?" The words slipped past the girl's lips, simply out of bewilderment from the attention. She didn't speak another word. She just looked at her mother, watching as the older woman pursed her dry lips tightly together in contemplation. Then a brisk chuckle broke the silence. "Nothing, you just look older." Was that meant to be a compliment? Just another thing she would probably never find an understanding to. There was nothing to say in response; "thank you" just seemed too formal for the moment. She just looked back at the battered door of her room and continued onward, the soft shuffling of her feet echoing in the silence.