Pegasus Flitwink [FINAL]

[knight]

A picture of his cutie mark can be found in the profile of THUDORA STRIKE, who is his daughter (see link.) Feel free to read her's after his to connect their stories.

Name: Flitterwink (Called ‘Flink’ by friends.)

Sex: Male

Age: Stallion, middle-aged (Equivalent to about ~30-35 human years)

Species: Pegasus

Pelt Color: Green

Mane/Tail/Markings Color & Style: His mane is medium-length and very curly, looking free and wind-blown. His tail is about to his hock, and is just as curly and wind-blown. It is a darker pinkish-red.

Eye Color: Light Red

Cutie Mark: Large (very large) butterfly

Origin: Canterlot

Roleplay: Mane

Occupation: Doctor specializing in both pony and non-pony care, also a believer and in the state of practicing aromatherapy.

Motivation: To do his deceased wife proud, to be a good father, and an all-around good pony. To attempt to get his daughter better behaved. Attempt to get over his natural shyness and better pursue his love of his fellow ponies.

Likes: Flying, traveling to new places, learning more about the world and about pony health, flowers and other sweet-smelling things, small precious things, romantic notions, poetry

Dislikes: Rash head-strong ponies, destruction, big bulky things, screaming and shouting, spiders, bats,

Character Summary:

Flitterwink has always been an exceptionally shy pony, from a young age he was raised in a family of hustle-and-bustle. His parents did not spend much time with him, as they themselves were always busy with their own work of being doctors. In this time, he found his friends to be the animals and flowers he would talk with, and try to heal with bandages and whatever materials he could find around the house. In his mending of little animals, he found his love of flight with the whimsical flutters of the butterflies. It was in the sky that he found his cutie mark, for he felt flood through him the love of all creatures and the joys of flying with the same blind joy that they held. Before even entering school, he had found his cutie mark, but whether or not he fully understood it, was unclear.

Despite it being forced upon him, he grew to love the field of medicine, and even from a young age was reading medical journals and text books—not that it aided his antisocial state.

School did not help much, as he was often harassed and teased for the enormous size of his wings looking nearly ridiculous in their proportion to his small colt body. When he was young, he was also the smallest member of his class, but as he aged, it became quite apparent that he was not destined to stay so small. Shortly after flight camp, he hit a massive growth spurt, and he, and his wings, nearly quadrupled in size. By the time he had finished growing, he towered as tall as the princess herself, if not a bit stouter and he nearly always had his wings hanging at his sides or dragging on the ground for they had gotten so bulky.

Despite his size, he never lost his love for all creatures small, which now had expanded to include much of ponykind. As he entered the field of medicine, with straight A’s across his classes, but still beyond awkward in social skills, he began to sink into a depressed state. He lacked friends. He had never asked a filly out in all of his life, and his parents were only throwing arranged matches at him to satisfy their own needs.

It was on such a day, where he had deserted his parents’ mansion to get away from the awful excuse for a match his parents set up, that he glumly entered the Whitetail Woods outside of Canterlot. It was in such wanderings, with wings dragging low on the ground that he came across…her.

Lying peacefully in a bed of flowers, the sun flickering down and warming her flesh, the love of his life. His heart leapt to his throat, and he could not find any words to say, so he did not speak, but gazed at her as she slept. She was beautiful. Her coat was of the brightest white and her frame the most petite he had seen in all his life. Daintily, as though they knew that this mare’s true nature and color were white, were stripes of the deepest black. Thin, and spread out far more than was normal for her species. Her tail was nearly entirely white, with only one thread of black through it, and her mane was perfectly striped one color over the other. As if to contradict the solid black and white patterning, her cutie mark was a pale red rose, square in its curvatures, and with four green stems threading out from its various sides.

He could only imagine what beautiful color could be hidden behind her closed eyelids.

It must have been a good hour before the zebra mare awoke, though she did not seem the least bit startled at the male before her, nor by the fact that he was so huge he could have crushed her. Somehow the two…completed each other. Her name was Rozelle, and her special talent was also one of healing. She had come from a village in faraway lands where she had been a shaman and healer to all in need. She had left the lands when her village had been pillaged, and found her way here to Equestria—to Canterlot after long endeavors and travels through the distant griffon land. She was especially gifted in the art of aromatherapy, and the two were initially brought together by Flitterwink’s desire to learn the art.

The two fell fast in love, and before his parents could think to stop him, he had asked the beautiful zebra for her hoof in marriage—and the zebra mare, although a bit unfamiliar with the Equestrian custom, happily obliged. The two were wed in a mixed ceremony, much to Flink’s parents’ disapproval, and on this day he and she wore the traditional zebra union attire, though the ceremony followed the traditional route with flowers and white chiffon abundant.

It was not long after, that the two began a practice together. Mixing the art of healing voodoo and modern medicine into a well-balanced, yet complete magnificent—not to mention prosperous—clinic. It was in this time of great happiness, that his love began to show signs of another little blessing—as her sides rounded and her coat grew thick, it became apparent that the two were soon to be blessed with the clippity clop of little hooves. However, it was also during this time that it became apparent that something was wrong with Rozelle. Something tragically wrong.

It started with a cough. She shook it off as nothing, but it became fiercer and fiercer as her pregnancy went on. As the due date neared, her appetite grew thin, and Flink began to fear that the little foal within her would not survive. By nothing short of a miracle, a happy, healthy, winged filly zebra was born, with dark pink hair, and green as her base, rather than white. It would seem that what her mother carried for genes was nothing but the stripes, and the deep shade of red that was the filly’s eyes. The moment he saw her, there was nothing more on this great wide world that he loved more than his daughter. Tiny as can be, and also a deep part of himself, he felt nothing but the purest love for her, stronger than even his love for Rozelle.

At first, the family was happy, and Flink felt that he had found some secret serenity beyond even the heavens. The two looked up to him, sought his attention like mad, and felt nothing but the deepest admiration for him, and he gave all his love right back to them, and found that they were the ones he looked up to, the greatness that he aspired for, and the love he had sought after for all his life.

But this happiness…was not to be. Rozelle’s illness returned in full force, and it became hard for her to even watch as her filly learned to walk, to flutter about, and even as she learned to call for her mother. Rozelle’s coughing turned coarse, and blood splattered her hooves when she tried to cover the violent hacks. She could no longer keep food down, and even the minimal amount of water became a chore. Before long, it became impossible for her to even walk, and then depression sunk its fangs into her flesh as she was no longer able to run and romp with her only filly.

Flink did his best to comfort her, to ease her pain, and everything in his power to attempt to heal her—from the modern medicine he had been raised with, to Rozelle’s own remedies, but nothing would quell her illness. He was left with nothing but the simplest reliefs—to carry her when she desired to move, to get her the seed of the poppy to ease her pain, and to soothe her sadness with afternoon flights upon his back. It was in this time, near the end of her life, that he knew what his cutie mark meant, and that it was a destined cutie mark that had always been meant to exist with his beloved’s red rose. He also knew…that it was near the end for her. At first he blamed himself, but knew deep in his heart that she would not have wanted to see him in a phase of guilt over her—nor would she have blamed him for a thing completely out of his control. And so, as he took her out one afternoon, a day where the sun warmed the earth and the flowers were in full bloom, that he knew it was her last.

He spread his large wings, wings large enough to carry his own weight, and the weight of all the love and what seemed like the weight of the entire world upon them, and he flew with her. He soared beyond the clouds, and into the air that was thin and hard to breathe. She was gone before he had even hit the cloud cover, but he did not care. He flew, and flew, up and up, until he could not himself breathe, and then let himself fall, her limp form cascading in the beautiful sun behind him. It was a peaceful feeling, the forced quiet that the pressure creates, the heat that’s formed as your descent into the atmosphere reaches a breaking point, and taste of cold, crisp water as you break through the clouds. With a burst of energy, and a silent sound like the flitter of a butterfly wing, he landed softly on the ground, his large wings bent inwards as they were used as a parachute to cease his impact. Quietly, as though wings of another kind were bracing her, Rozelle landed in the curve of his outstretched hoof. Quiet. Still. Unmoving. A tear staining her cheek, a flood of them covering his own.

Her funeral was brief, and she was not buried, but sent off into the sea in a burning bed of flowers, as was tradition in her small tribe.

Left to raise their filly alone, he assumed the role of both mother and father, and despite his timid nature, raised Thudora to be an open filly, very talkative and outgoing, even so far as to say she has a mean streak. With her now an adult, and constantly in and out of the clinic and house, he has had more time to work on his practice, and has extended the clinic hours and is now taking house calls.

[brianblackberry]

That is so sad!

For Great Justice!

[Skye]