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[ morgana rides to escape the confining walls of camelot. where once it was her home, she's felt nothing but misplacement; she does not belong within these bigoted walls, with a prince who knows no better, under the thumb of a king who allows his ignorance to be fueled by an unjustified hatred. her attempts to ride alone, to feel like herself rather than lady morgana pendragon, are fruitless; soldiers on their own horses create a tight perimetre around her. in a kingdom that barely learns from its past mistakes, she finds that it is begrudgingly doing so at a moment where she wishes to simply be.
it's within the distance, just on the lip of the skirts of camelot, where the woods stop and the town begins, does morgana note something pecuilar. a horse's silhouette stands in the brush, it's head bowed, his hooves slightly pawing at the earthy ground. the bushes and thick trunks of trees block her view of seeing what it seems to be looming over, if there's anything on the ground besides grass blades that have taken its interest. the soldiers around her see nothing, as they always have, with their eyes focused on something straight ahead. rather than continuing along her straight path, morgana makes a sharp left, her horse letting out a sound of slight irritation at being thrown off of the usual course.
one soldier begins to shift seconds later, always a few belated breaths, following her like a shadow. as her horse moves at a slow pace, to not spook the other, she looks over her shoulder with a sharp look. ] Stay. I will be all right.
[ no other cursed words have ever been muttered more. they do as she says; though, she can hear the movement of hooves, of how the clinking of their chainmail comes to a halt as they watch her, prepared to strike like hawks.
as she comes closer to the horse, morgana dismounts hers. running her hand over its nose, up over its ears, she pats it softly on the neck in an effort to calm it, as if these gestures combined will keep her own horse from worrying. her eyes are on the unfamiliar horse rather than the ground; approaching it slowly, she gives it a smile.
it isn't until she's able to reach out and touch the horse with a straight, stiff arm that her eyes shift slightly to the ground. a lump of a man lies within the grass blades, soaked in blood on large patches of his armour. it's an unfamiliar colour, an unfamiliar suit, but morgana does not hesitate to come to kneel by his side. she looks up at the horse, as if for permission, as she tentatively places her palm on the shoulder of the man. ]
it's within the distance, just on the lip of the skirts of camelot, where the woods stop and the town begins, does morgana note something pecuilar. a horse's silhouette stands in the brush, it's head bowed, his hooves slightly pawing at the earthy ground. the bushes and thick trunks of trees block her view of seeing what it seems to be looming over, if there's anything on the ground besides grass blades that have taken its interest. the soldiers around her see nothing, as they always have, with their eyes focused on something straight ahead. rather than continuing along her straight path, morgana makes a sharp left, her horse letting out a sound of slight irritation at being thrown off of the usual course.
one soldier begins to shift seconds later, always a few belated breaths, following her like a shadow. as her horse moves at a slow pace, to not spook the other, she looks over her shoulder with a sharp look. ] Stay. I will be all right.
[ no other cursed words have ever been muttered more. they do as she says; though, she can hear the movement of hooves, of how the clinking of their chainmail comes to a halt as they watch her, prepared to strike like hawks.
as she comes closer to the horse, morgana dismounts hers. running her hand over its nose, up over its ears, she pats it softly on the neck in an effort to calm it, as if these gestures combined will keep her own horse from worrying. her eyes are on the unfamiliar horse rather than the ground; approaching it slowly, she gives it a smile.
it isn't until she's able to reach out and touch the horse with a straight, stiff arm that her eyes shift slightly to the ground. a lump of a man lies within the grass blades, soaked in blood on large patches of his armour. it's an unfamiliar colour, an unfamiliar suit, but morgana does not hesitate to come to kneel by his side. she looks up at the horse, as if for permission, as she tentatively places her palm on the shoulder of the man. ]
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