//------------------------------//
// V 
// Story: Wayfarer 
// by The Plebeian 
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And now colors are mixed.

The moon glows well on the two, benevolently, hopefully, and the stars shine with renewed vigor in hopes to add what they can, illuminating even the cracks between cobblestones, and the bristles of the paint brush, left to lie on the easel, still coated in short strokes of starry white. The golden gate provides an excellent backdrop, with its glimmering bars between which are found vague silhouettes of night guards and the bases of tall palace towers. On either side of the gate is depicted the head of a unicorn, fashioned in plain white, with the addition of gold linings. The same high-vaulting tower makes a silhouette in the center of the background, along with the singular light of the tower nearby. The deep blues of the night sky cascade over the edges of the buildings, and fill the scene with a dim serene shade. 

The moon is even greater now, and the particular form of a unicorn’s head is manifest in the assembly of craters and valleys, a watchful eye wide open for the occurring collision, with all the satisfaction the moon could have, the quiet of night finally broken in favor of a new glow and flame. It is not the first such scene that the moon has kept watch over, but it is indeed one of the finest. Whatever happens now will be enough to keep its glow strong for years to come, whether the collision creates or destroys. It hardly matters what it is that shatters the night, so long as it is shattered, livened.

Excited green-blue eyes are what define the entire countenance of the first figure. They are filled with a curiosity and renewed vigor, a glittering that livens the entire scene with happy light, and cast rays of adoration and inquiry. They are wide eyes, with eyebrows raised high, in the way they do during pleasant surprise or an enlightening discovery. The mouth is wide open in a broad, talking grin, formed currently into an invigorated ‘a’ sound. His black mane is lifted a bit off of his head, and it is apparent he is nodding energetically. All of his weight appears to be focused in his front hooves, as he is tipped slightly forward, his back hooves on their very tips, and his wings threatening to unfurl. His energy is falling away from him, adding a blue glow to the scene around him, from a couple of nondescript shops behind to the pavement below, to the gilding of the gate. His tail is swept upwards in his animation, and the feather in his mane is found in greater detail, painted in miniscule flamelike patterns. 

The bag swings listlessly at his side, and although the empty pouch does find its place in the scene; it is hardly recognizable, vaguely drawn and forgotten. He is every bit alive with something new, and like a true wayfarer, he must explore, discover, however disconnected or crass such a parallel would seem to him, it is his color. Still, there is more behind his excitement than the curiosity towards a new frontier. There is something else here that offers itself up to him, that adds just the right conflict to his raging tempo. In this collision, he is made anew, a well-orchestrated meeting that sets in motion something wonderful, and something else beside. Now, here, the night has matured, and the hope of a lively evening is just beginning to bloom, and the glow is still yet one of embers, and not of flame. The cold of night no longer passes through, lest it disturb this moment; or perhaps it continues, and merely does not present itself, ignored and thus hidden by the unshaken figures.

Her eyes cannot be seen, hidden behind closed lids and a nervous smile. Perhaps it is a shield against the wayfarer’s concussive barrage of words and exclamations, or perhaps she simply has not expected such a lively companion to find her on such a lovely quiet night. Her cheeks are filled with red color, and her ears are folded down over her dark curly mane. She is sitting down now, her tail twitching anxiously behind, rather unused to such energy released at once. Her wings are folded, but tilted back, as if to absorb an impact, or to brake against a sharp descent. Her hair has hidden one eye shyly behind, though it likely has not occurred yet to the stallion how jarring his praise is to the typically-quiet mare. 

Behind the closed eyes, her mind races to find something to say, anything just to respond, to break her silence, despite wayfarer’s mouth being open enough for both of them. She remains silent, but the words are just beginning to find their shape on her tongue. Somehow, still, she is excited, perhaps in a sense of contagion, or emission from the stallion, but it is built-up energy regardless. The artist has forgotten, for a moment, why she first set out on this quiet night – which coincidentally, was for the quiet – and in the fray of words, has found a new energy far greater than the slow, cold inspiration of silence. 

She wonders if she should open her eyes once more, if she will be able to accept the powerful gaze, which is not broken, but merely weakened by her shut eyes. She too has noticed that undying glimmering in the eyes, that vibrant glow that flows out of his bright blue coat, undulled even by the night sky. This is a brighter glow than she ever expected – wanted, even – on a glittering night in the city. This stallion is strange, with an impossible, overflowing color, that perhaps she would like to gain a greater understanding of. Never has her humility been so well broken, her calm art been so profoundly praised. She wonders if he can see her in the painting, if he likes that part just as well. She fervently hopes so.