He is a mess of black hair lifting in the wind with deep dapples tarnishing his grey coat. Blue eyes, more vivid than a firefly igniting shadows in the dark, set cold stone on the Tundra border line. He lingers along the cliff, eyeing the descent into the snowy escape with the wind tugging at his hair, beckoning him forward.

Dalten is a simple man, his body stocky and tall with a thick undercoat from the chilling winter upon them. The only originality being the light blue streaks of lightning that currently fade in and out along his fetlock, playing with his gift as if it is a stress reliever. Maybe it is.

To go in, to stand here, the choice was fifty/fifty down the middle yet here he is standing as if there were millions of factors that played in.

Mother being gone.

Father being gone.

Him being alone to carry on a now practically nameless title and them, not being here to witness the greatness he aspired to be.

The snow is crushed beneath his weight with one stride forward before he stops and allows a frosty breath to steam from his nostrils. He should wait here, wait for a greeter and permission to enter.

Light blue streaks of lighting sparks at his hooves as he waits.

He is still standing with hues of blue igniting his hocks, when the sound of a distant female erupts in his ears. The sound is a familiar call, the feminine tone whistling into the air like a harp song. Instantly, his ears flatten.

He hates women.

He hates the baggage they come with, the pain they cause with their persistent complaining. Dalten is a bachelor, he always will be. He will always appreciate the company of his brothers before the company of an incesant mare, especially when said mare is reliant on a male’s company; no thank you.

“Move along,” his annoyance visible in how his tone shifts, “I am not interested in a woman’s company.”

Oh, how his mother would be proud.