• Published 1st Dec 2013
  • 725 Views, 23 Comments

Wayfarer - The Plebeian



A picture is worth one thousand words.

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II

A great arch stretches above, colored a pearl white, from left to right spanning at least fifty hooves. The magnificent archway flattens out on the top, save for showy ramparts that alternate all the way across its visible span. Atop rests a pale-grey figure peering over the small half-wall between two of the ramparts, adorned with a royal-looking gold over its shoulders and back, and helmed with gold and a vibrant plume. Either side of the great swooping supports give way to familiarly-clad buildings, painted the same pearly white. B

Both the buildings and the archway are clothed in splendrous gold finery, weaving in and out, between its own curls, taking near-sylvan paths across the bold architecture, casting a soft golden glow over the city’s odd pearl. Along the left and right are lined countless buildings of bright signage and glass windows through which equally-countless works of art and mundanity can be found in muted, blurry color. Beyond the arch, far-away buildings provide vague, shadowy shapes, between which lies a clear whitish blue.

Another gold-adorned figure, this time shaded deep black, appears above the first figure, charcoal-feathered wings just beginning to fold in from full span, and radiant blue eyes that somehow find their way past the luster of the standard plumed helmet. Farther below, a greater amalgam of colors finds its place. Muted reds, vibrant blues, and humble golds make their ways over a cobblestone street, in the forms of ponies, couples, cliques of vibrance and hue.

The blurs may have life among them, of perhaps other shades than they were colored. Perhaps they were made of less hue, or live better-blended lives. Such hues, however cannot be seen through the blurs of their coats. For many, even the coat can hardly be seen beneath other obscuring adornments, vaguely-stitched dresses, sketched coats, hats of smudged tropics. Some have even adorned their coats with a newer, less native color, perhaps to better represent the colors beneath, perhaps to serve as greater misdirection. For most, their true colors are never shown. In an ultimate sense, their colors were never known to begin with, by holder or beholder. They remain muted under vibrant coats, painted to make vibrant streets.

But of course, the smudges do not matter in the least. They are but color. Only one figure of this scene finds true detail.

Directly below the arch is an equine of vibrant blue, hooves firmly set on the ground, neck arced up, wings tucked at his sides. In his eyes rest an undying awe. They may be aimed at the archway as far as mere focus, but they meet the rest of the scene in surprising detail, for they reflect the scene in its entirety; each multicolored gilding. They mimic the bold curves and extravagant construction in mere reflection, and commit once more to memory the glittering city as well as will recall. Even those silhouetted spires far beyond have been dedicated a bonafide image, incorruptible only for the first seconds before the colors begin to blend. The fineries grow vaguer by the second, until they become more a reflection of the stallion than of the city.

The eyes find the city well, though at the moment, they see but the mere archway, perhaps a bit less inspiring from directly below, where all that rests is its straight-edged shadow, and a sense of fading. The awnings around cast similar shades and fades directly downwards, providing shelter from the overwhelming shine of the white city, if only to be beckoned in to sample the mundanities and artistries.

The stallion’s face is painted well with a broad smile of simultaneous awe and excitement. It is a loved city, of lovely gilding and lively color. If all streets of the city are thus well-lined, then perhaps a lifetime’s span would just allow a thorough visit to each. The smile knows, and though it expects no such intimacy with the glittering city, it did so love the prospect, if only just to take a shallow dive through the city, and find but a few morsels of interest to match his hues.

Yet this is a mere frame. Such intimations may only be found in a closer look; a dash of shining glitter in the eyes, and a short stroke of white are all that are directly apparent. The bright feather still juts out defiantly from the dark mane, which now drifts casually just around the eyes and down his neck. The tail twitches just to the side, an idle movement perhaps to keep steady tempo. The map is still unfurled, and but a mere shadow of the map to be found in the rare stallion. Among the greys and pearls of stable ground, his coat seems better-suited for the sky, so close to matching it, despite greater vibrancy.

However, the eyes are focused on the arch, not the blue hues above it. That is because there is no place without the sky. So, the sky is never found on the map. It is not unique, for it shines the same blue over any city, though occasionally obscured or outshined. He becomes only so familiar with a color before he can no longer see it. Beyond is far more void than blue, more blank than bright or lucid. The sky of day is regrettably unremarkable, admittedly uninteresting. Still, he knows the color, can recall the color; he merely sees it no longer.

He is poised to continue on his way forward, but looks up at the archway only for a moment, if only to grasp its familiarity. Invisible is his momentum, which catches up with him immediately. Still, for a moment, the arch exists, as does its gilding, and the coated colors surrounding. The spires take shape for an instant, and the noontime shades come through to meet the reflective eyes. The scene exists for a mere moment before it is dedicated, after which it blends together. The arch stands in focus, and sky is but a fabrication.