He is in the field again. It seems he is in the field often lately, despite the fact that duties call. But then, this is one of them. And the Tundra does have quite a need. The weather today is inordinately hot. Then again, that is likely because he is used to the much cooler temperatures of his northern home. Summer has rolled around, bringing with it the sweet fragrance of growing things and greatly extended daylight hours. Not that he would object to the lack of darkness. Not when the Tundra has warmed enough to actually be considered somewhat balmy (at least by Tundra standards. By others it might still be quite chilly). Here though, it is downright hot.
That does not stop him however. Brushing off the mild discomfort as he does the frigid winter temperatures in his home, he continues forward. He scouts the field in much the same way as he patrols, though in this case, he chooses to walk rather than fly. His large, feathered wings are tucked neatly into his sides as he stalks forward, ruffling them occasionally in an attempt to keep cool.
He has been at it for several hours before he stumbles into the pair of them. Or rather, catches sight of them from a distance and halts so that he might more closely observe. The stallion, lying prone, appears to have been subject to something rather unsavory. Even from a distance, Hurricane can see that he is in rough shape. He debates for a moment whether to approach invisibly, so as to reconnoiter at a closer distance, but ultimately decides against it. He is not yet entirely sure he wishes to approach. While he is not averse to sticky situations, he is also not the most comforting or healing fellow. And the mare seems to be doing a rather fine job of ensuring the other stallion’s health for herself.
Finally, he makes the decision to step forward, to find out firsthand what is going on. After all, he can always walk away, though he is not so heartless that he would leave a man on death’s doorstep. As he nears, he can hear their conversation more clearly. Where before it had been only faint snippets, now he can pick out more easily what is being said. It seems that the darker stallion is named Sindor and has lost his memories. That, at least, is something he is familiar with.
Having lost his memories once, long ago now, he can understand the other man’s confusion. Can still clearly recall the frustration and agony he had put himself through trying to reclaim them. Unfortunately he had never been successful. But then, he has lived so long it hardly seems to matter anymore. He had simply replaced them with decades of new ones.
He halts at a comfortable distance from the pair, eyeing the battered stallion closely.
”You’ll give yourself a headache if you try too hard. Remembering, that is.” Pause. ”I’m Hurricane, by the way.”
That does not stop him however. Brushing off the mild discomfort as he does the frigid winter temperatures in his home, he continues forward. He scouts the field in much the same way as he patrols, though in this case, he chooses to walk rather than fly. His large, feathered wings are tucked neatly into his sides as he stalks forward, ruffling them occasionally in an attempt to keep cool.
He has been at it for several hours before he stumbles into the pair of them. Or rather, catches sight of them from a distance and halts so that he might more closely observe. The stallion, lying prone, appears to have been subject to something rather unsavory. Even from a distance, Hurricane can see that he is in rough shape. He debates for a moment whether to approach invisibly, so as to reconnoiter at a closer distance, but ultimately decides against it. He is not yet entirely sure he wishes to approach. While he is not averse to sticky situations, he is also not the most comforting or healing fellow. And the mare seems to be doing a rather fine job of ensuring the other stallion’s health for herself.
Finally, he makes the decision to step forward, to find out firsthand what is going on. After all, he can always walk away, though he is not so heartless that he would leave a man on death’s doorstep. As he nears, he can hear their conversation more clearly. Where before it had been only faint snippets, now he can pick out more easily what is being said. It seems that the darker stallion is named Sindor and has lost his memories. That, at least, is something he is familiar with.
Having lost his memories once, long ago now, he can understand the other man’s confusion. Can still clearly recall the frustration and agony he had put himself through trying to reclaim them. Unfortunately he had never been successful. But then, he has lived so long it hardly seems to matter anymore. He had simply replaced them with decades of new ones.
He halts at a comfortable distance from the pair, eyeing the battered stallion closely.
”You’ll give yourself a headache if you try too hard. Remembering, that is.” Pause. ”I’m Hurricane, by the way.”
There is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die.
Hurricane
