Skrybe

by UnEditedScripts

Rating: everyone
Tags: Slice of Life
Length: 1411

An introduction to my OC Skrybe, as well as a preview of the style of writing to expect for my future submissions.

Skrybe is a young mare who adores writing more than anything. So much so, that she is willing to step away from her comforts, in order to illicit the best of her ideas, to create writing that has emotions and meaning, rather than simple text. This is an introduction to display my writing style, as well as my OC, Skrybe.

Published 1970-01-01 00:00:00 UTC
Last updated 2013-06-14 00:50:02 UTC

Who I Am

"I write, to see the world from a point of view others don't. To make other smile and nod, or frown and cry in agreement and disagreement alike, so I may, in some manner, create writing that can be seen from all perspectives, rather than one." ~Skrybe

     Night had fallen, pulling the vibrant hues of red and gold away from the emerald landscape, leaving it shrouded in somber, obsidian hues. The air, which just moments ago, carried the radiant sounds of excitement and pleasure, the giggling of fillies and colts, the light chuckles and chatter of mares and stallions carrying about their daily business, and even the smooth and exotic scents of the marketplace, lay still. Perhaps it was the temperature, the cool air that had been carried in by the seasonal change, hinted at by the bare trees, the change of attire the local population sported, or even the once soft soil, that turned lighter, and became harder to work with.

Skrybe trotted slowly through the silent, seemingly abandoned village. The tuffs of her snowy, white coat illuminated ever so slightly in the silky, white aura of the moon that had just revealed itself in the sky above. Skrybe watched her shadow gently, as the two moved in unison, before coming to a rest in the center of the town. She raised her head, her coal and violet mane fell to the side of her face, revealing her silvery-red eyes, which now locked upon the crescent above. She spoke softly, her voice carrying through the night air, as would the chime of a bell, "Beautiful." She smiled to herself, looking back at her worn, nearly mutilated, tan saddlebag that sat just above her folded wings.

She reached a hoof back, reaching into her bag, a look of disappointment crossing her face, as she felt around, the soft fabric tickling her hoof lightly, until it reached the hole in her bag. "My- quill," she said quietly, before looking at the ground behind her. "I lost my last quill," she said, trailing off. After a moment, she reached into the other side of her bag, before giggling, "Right. No bits, either." She sat down, sighing heavily, her eyes trailing behind her, finally landing on her cutie mark- a red and gold quill that she had gotten many years ago. "If only I could write with you," she said calmly. "I guess I can try to beg for bits or a quill in the morning." She rose slowly, shaking off any pieces of debris that had collected in her coat from the ground below. Checking her saddlebag, she made her way silently south of the village, disappearing into the brush.

  It hadn't taken her long to reach her small home, which sat just a few minutes within the forest. She looked at it, a blank expression crossing her face, as she approached the northern side of the weather-beaten shack. She raised her right hoof, gently caressing the side, wincing a few sharpened points that jutted out from the cracked and broken planks. Making her way inside, she tossed her saddlebag onto the ground, making her way over to her table, which was made from a single, stump she had pulled from the woods when she had first set up her house. She looked towards her bed, a pile of straw she had gathered when there was a break in the rain. Above her bed, several papers rested against the wall, pinned by small pieces of wood or glass she had collected over time.

She read one aloud, a sly smile crossing her face, "Those who write, choose to write, or think they can write, must suffer. It is only through suffering that their characters can come to life, that they may write about the joyous side of life, because they know of hell." She looked to the side, admiring another paper, marked in her own writing. "I have built, with limited knowledge, so I may remember what effort truly is. When I write, I will use effort to ensure that it does not end up like this mess before me." Her eyes light up lightly, as she turned to the stump, a single piece of paper resting on top of it. "I don't need a quill, she said gently, spreading her right wing wide. She took pride in her wings, often preening them, grooming them, making them look perfect no matter how disrupted things were around her. She nuzzled her wing gently, taking in her light, rose-like scent, as she shut her crystal-red eyes gently, biting down on one of her feathers, and tugging roughly. She let out a quiet grunt as her skin fought to keep the feather in place, before giving in. She opened her eyes, a tear running down her cheek, as she looked down, the snowy white feather staying firmly in her mouth, the tip stained with her blood, a crimson red, which seemed to challenge her eyes in the streams of moonlight that leaked through the cracks and holes in the roof.

She sat in front of the paper, a solemn expression on her face, as she lightly traced the edges with her hoof, teasing the fibers of the feather with her tongue. Just as she was about to press the quill to the paper and begin writing, a silvery spec flashed in the corner of her eye. She turned to the single wall that had no markings and frowned slightly. It wasn't until she felt a cold spot form on the tip of her nose, that her eyes went wide. Nearly dropping the feather, she looked above her to see the gentle falling of snow greet her, tiny crystals dancing in the glimmering light of the moon, landing upon her roof, bed, all around her. She turned to the wall of her writings, her eyes beginning to tear, as she clenched the feather tighter in her mouth. She had been told for years, that a writer can never compete with a painter, that people want to see artwork, rather than picture things for themselves. She swallowed hard, looking back at the single piece of paper, that still lay blank, absent of thought. She had never been able to draw, and her last piece of parchment was hardly the place to practice. She looked back up at the sky, admiring the beauty she wished she could create in color, rather than in words. Her eyes went wide, as a calm smile spread across her lips.

Skrybe gently made her way over to the parchment, turning her head back to her wing, which had a small amount of blood, still tricking, contrasting the smooth white with bold crimson. She dabbed the tip of the feather in the last of the warm liquid, before gently pressing it to the paper. She closed her eyes gently, running over the parchment in smooth strokes, as she took in a shaky breath, a few tears running down her cheeks, as she finished her writing. The feather drooped in her mouth, as she carefully picked up the parchment, fitting the two snugly in her mouth, before walking back over to the wall. She held the parchment against the wood firmly, before pressing the tip of her feather into the top of the sheet, the feather broke through the soft wood, keeping the note in place. She turned from the wall, wiping the tears from her face, before looking up at the sky once again, the snow had begun sticking to her floor, coating the dusty marking of her hooves in an empty white. She sighed softly, looking up at the moon one last time, before making her way to her bed, which had a few specs of snow staining the yellow fibers. She wrapped her forelegs around herself, shivering in the now decreasing temperature. Above her, her note fluttered lightly, the feather used to pin it, shining proudly in the moonlight. Skrybe closed her eyes, and softened her breathing, wrapping her wings around her trembling body, as she tried to stay as warm as possible. After a few minutes, she drifted off to sleep.

As the night progressed, the light of the moon only seemed to shift, never fade, as her new note, written in scarlet, seemed to draw the attention of the light, highlighting the words in an ebony hue.

"Let me paint you a picture with words."