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Description

Featuring; Vahlo, the lost.
Autumn, Year 764 of the New Age;
Suffering in silence in Vlad's abandoned den.

When did we become these sinking stones?
When did we build this broken home?
Holding each other like ransom notes.
Dropping our hearts to grip our brother's throat.

Pale. Princess. Disgraceful. He did no one any favors by existing. True, glorious, Glenmorian stags were meant to be dark. Not this awful shade of princess pale.
Especially not the ethereal sort of pale Vahlo was. Without his father standing by to readily protect him, other fawnlings would be come his worst nightmare.
While most looked silently upon him with disdain, foals his age and slightly larger and any without filters? They tormented him. And not only with their words.
The mocking. The goading. Vahlo was helpless against it - he'd never been forced to face others without adult back up. Adult back up that had suddenly become scarce.
He didn't know how to react to it, their words breaking themselves upon him as severely as any stick or stone could. Physically weakening him in impossible ways.
When he cried - he couldn't tell if it was because he was furious or because he was hurt. He couldn't help what color he'd been born... and besides...

...his father had always said he was beautiful...
...so... wasn't he?...

You can't see because you don't know.
You're caught below, beneath your own shadow.
Stuck inside, half alive.
Do you ever stop to ask yourself why?

Even when he'd slip away to the solitude of his father's abandoned den, their words would follow him. He'd thrash in his sleep, fleeing from their laughter.
The harshness of their tones as they spat at him like he was scum. Even the few older colts who would have the nerve to strike him. All of them. They haunted him.
He'd receded almost entirely into seclusion, bathed in the darkness of the unlit den. Excursions out of the den were rare and growing increasingly less frequent.
A few particular packs of foals had even gone so far as to circle the old den, chanting terrible things. Chanting horrible, vile things that made Vahlo's guts twist.
He would never amount to anything or anyone - destined to be a nobody. He was gross and would never find a 'one true love' like in the stories. Oh the stories.
Those same stories his father used to tell him in elaborate detail in ways that made his heart swell with glee when he thought about it. Those same stories...
They would suddenly grow claw and tooth - ready to fend him off at the first sign of approach. So wildly out of reach. So impossible to grasp.

He was so ugly. So hideous. How could anyone dare look upon him without cringing? Why had his father lied to him so?

Anchored in anger, we exile ourselves,
Bitter blood builds our prison cell.
Darker water now fills our lungs,
The depths of our heart have blacked the sun.

Any signs of approach to the mouth of the den would begin to send Vahlo into a panic. Terrified. They'd taken everything from him.
Now they were coming to take his soul. He would never survive here. He would never be welcome among them. Those monsters.

He was so. So terribly. Alone.

This is the time that we let it go,
This is the pain we are forced to know.
Singing the song that's inside us all,
If we just open our eyes.

Song Lyrics From; Nothing More - This is the Time.
Vahlo's character/design belongs to me.
Artwork is © to me as well - thank you.

Description

Featuring; Vahlo, the lost.
Autumn, Year 764 of the New Age;
Suffering in silence in Vlad's abandoned den.

When did we become these sinking stones?
When did we build this broken home?
Holding each other like ransom notes.
Dropping our hearts to grip our brother's throat.

Pale. Princess. Disgraceful. He did no one any favors by existing. True, glorious, Glenmorian stags were meant to be dark. Not this awful shade of princess pale.
Especially not the ethereal sort of pale Vahlo was. Without his father standing by to readily protect him, other fawnlings would be come his worst nightmare.
While most looked silently upon him with disdain, foals his age and slightly larger and any without filters? They tormented him. And not only with their words.
The mocking. The goading. Vahlo was helpless against it - he'd never been forced to face others without adult back up. Adult back up that had suddenly become scarce.
He didn't know how to react to it, their words breaking themselves upon him as severely as any stick or stone could. Physically weakening him in impossible ways.
When he cried - he couldn't tell if it was because he was furious or because he was hurt. He couldn't help what color he'd been born... and besides...

...his father had always said he was beautiful...
...so... wasn't he?...

You can't see because you don't know.
You're caught below, beneath your own shadow.
Stuck inside, half alive.
Do you ever stop to ask yourself why?

Even when he'd slip away to the solitude of his father's abandoned den, their words would follow him. He'd thrash in his sleep, fleeing from their laughter.
The harshness of their tones as they spat at him like he was scum. Even the few older colts who would have the nerve to strike him. All of them. They haunted him.
He'd receded almost entirely into seclusion, bathed in the darkness of the unlit den. Excursions out of the den were rare and growing increasingly less frequent.
A few particular packs of foals had even gone so far as to circle the old den, chanting terrible things. Chanting horrible, vile things that made Vahlo's guts twist.
He would never amount to anything or anyone - destined to be a nobody. He was gross and would never find a 'one true love' like in the stories. Oh the stories.
Those same stories his father used to tell him in elaborate detail in ways that made his heart swell with glee when he thought about it. Those same stories...
They would suddenly grow claw and tooth - ready to fend him off at the first sign of approach. So wildly out of reach. So impossible to grasp.

He was so ugly. So hideous. How could anyone dare look upon him without cringing? Why had his father lied to him so?

Anchored in anger, we exile ourselves,
Bitter blood builds our prison cell.
Darker water now fills our lungs,
The depths of our heart have blacked the sun.

Any signs of approach to the mouth of the den would begin to send Vahlo into a panic. Terrified. They'd taken everything from him.
Now they were coming to take his soul. He would never survive here. He would never be welcome among them. Those monsters.

He was so. So terribly. Alone.

This is the time that we let it go,
This is the pain we are forced to know.
Singing the song that's inside us all,
If we just open our eyes.

Song Lyrics From; Nothing More - This is the Time.
Vahlo's character/design belongs to me.
Artwork is © to me as well - thank you.