| Based on | Click to view |
| Artist | Oddly Shaded [gallery] |
| Time spent | 56 minutes |
| Drawing sessions | 6 |
| 29 people like this | Log in to vote for this drawing |


machinecar12 wrote:Marking! Also, I don't know many of the people over here at WME, so I'm totally open to join a group if anyone needs another member!! Send me a PM!

the squad wrote:Stabbrielle LumosElm MapleNeko noreptiles_ blackhoeses Shebster Nikki6Ashba

Hush, sweet shadows, lift your gaze, let slip the thread of tired days. The moon has bled across the pane, and here we stand, in fog and rain... But wait! This rain is spun of tears, This fog, the smoke of vanished years!
No clock ticks here, no sunrise grieves, we bloom from dust and phantom leaves. You drift with us from stone and mould, to seek the stories yet untold. The living sleep in beds of bliss, no beating heart may cross this kiss.
Welcome, souls, whose breath is naught, whose silent laughter has been caught between the echoes, thin and deep, while all the careless world asleep. Tonight, the Cirque Nocturne takes flight, woven from darkness and the light!
The music hums, the canvas sighs, we trade your sorrow for surprise. The acrobat defies the fall, the strongmare lifts the weight of all. the poet mends the heart's old tear, the doctor banishes all fear.
Shed your shroud and step inside, where pain and pleasure softly ride. For one more night, we hold the line, between the mortal and divine. The show is yours, the stage is set! A thing of beauty you won’t forget.


They used to say that the end of the world was going to be loud. Explosive. An impact that shatters the planet like a nut underhoof.
The only thing loud about it was the growing silence.
When I was a foal, there were birds, bats, bunnies… elk that bellowed and bears that roared. Slowly, they started to disappear. The birdsong echoed to nothing. The thundering hooves of bison stilled. The howls of the wolves and coyotes tapered and cut.
Those of us who survived sometimes only heard the creaking of trees in a drying wind, for days on end.
Some fell prey to madness, talking to ghosts that walked beside them, visible only to their eyes. I had a brother who swore up and down that he was speaking to our little sister as we crossed the mountains together.
We… never had a little sister. Our mother vanished not long before I was old enough to separate from her. I was her last, as far as we knew.
He never made it off of that mountain, himself. Or, he may have, but he was not with me when I woke up one morning, and I haven’t seen him since. Sometimes I wonder if I have already faded into a wandering spirit, myself. Am I the ghost he spoke so softly to? Who but the wind would be there to tell me otherwise?
We remnants, we wander, and we don’t know for how long we’ve done it. We’re not sure what we’re looking for - the last dregs of society, maybe, a miracle, a sign that… maybe not all is lost. And some folks, they give up searching and make their own happiness, their own small society with each other, and maybe a new soul that stands in the scattering ashes of what there once was.
Oh. So it's probably been at least a year, then, for foals to be born. Time is funny, when it’s not measured.
I’ve seen an ocean, in its vastness and ever-changing ways, and felt a strange mix of sorrow and hope - the tide erased all of my hoofprints in the sand, and washed out so much, but then it left more behind it. I guess I just hope that when the world’s ocean comes back, I won’t be swept away, too.


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