02-09-2019, 11:59 PM
The world below his hooves is a colorful one. Summer has painted the earth in a myriad of hues, but it is the dusky red of Loess that he searches for. Pteron has looked north at these hills for his whole life, but this is the first time he has actually visited the land. It is lovely at this time of day, and it is filled with easy places for a flying horse to land. He chooses an outcropping of red stone, and he drops to the earth quickly and with a sharp thud and crack.
There is a bit of pain in the landing but it fades quite quickly. Pteron has not yet attributed this quirk of his physiology to the supernatural, but as he breathes in air that is ripe with a plague that he has never been exposed to, it seems he might soon discover it. The bones of his legs creak as he stretches, the instantaneous knitting together of half dozen microfractures from his severe landing happening in the time it takes him to look around the place he has landed.
The boy rolls his shoulders and the wings behind them, shaking the feathers as straight as he can manage without help. They are a little too long still for him to reach the ends – and unfortunate happenstance of not being fully grown and proportionate. His mane is windblown, he knows, knotted and somewhat damp from the clouds he had dove through. He has heard that the leadership of Loess has changed hands, and has come to find out who the new leader is. Not his parents, he knows, and not Vulgaris. There aren’t many other names that the tobiano colt knows, and when he takes in a deep breath of the sandy air, it is flavored with only the scent of strangers.
Strangers and blood; the hair along his neck stands on immediate end. He nearly disappears at the danger, but reminds himself that he is no longer a child. Shaking his ead, he follows the smell and the sound of voices until he comes across two horses. A mare and a stallion, both at least the age of his parents. Pteron meets their gaze with his curious olive eyes, looking from one to the other.
“Is this Loess?” He asks. “Have you seen Wolfbane or Lepis recently?”
There is a bit of pain in the landing but it fades quite quickly. Pteron has not yet attributed this quirk of his physiology to the supernatural, but as he breathes in air that is ripe with a plague that he has never been exposed to, it seems he might soon discover it. The bones of his legs creak as he stretches, the instantaneous knitting together of half dozen microfractures from his severe landing happening in the time it takes him to look around the place he has landed.
The boy rolls his shoulders and the wings behind them, shaking the feathers as straight as he can manage without help. They are a little too long still for him to reach the ends – and unfortunate happenstance of not being fully grown and proportionate. His mane is windblown, he knows, knotted and somewhat damp from the clouds he had dove through. He has heard that the leadership of Loess has changed hands, and has come to find out who the new leader is. Not his parents, he knows, and not Vulgaris. There aren’t many other names that the tobiano colt knows, and when he takes in a deep breath of the sandy air, it is flavored with only the scent of strangers.
Strangers and blood; the hair along his neck stands on immediate end. He nearly disappears at the danger, but reminds himself that he is no longer a child. Shaking his ead, he follows the smell and the sound of voices until he comes across two horses. A mare and a stallion, both at least the age of his parents. Pteron meets their gaze with his curious olive eyes, looking from one to the other.
“Is this Loess?” He asks. “Have you seen Wolfbane or Lepis recently?”