The darkness of a warm autumn night blanketed the forest. His red-gold coat was clammy and moist, and the gentle warmth around him had no effect on the chill that shuddered through his body. Rivulets of sweat streaked down his withers and barrelled ribs. His breath came out uneven and strained. He was either fevered, exhausted, or both.
Demons slithered through the shadows. There was a musty odor he couldn't seem to rid from his nostrils. Rustling foliage masked the sound of his steps and his unsteady heartbeat throbbed in his ears. His focus was shot, as it often was of late, and he knew he needed to remedy it. He feared he was losing his mind a little at a time. Haunted by the face of his dead child, she seemed to chase him to this place. She followed him everywhere. A lone tear betrayed his strength, melding with a track of sweat down his cheek. He uttered a low growl. At least it had the decency to slip away in fear.
Nettles and debris were swept in a burst of action just west of him. His head swiveled toward the sound and he bared his teeth menacingly. Without hesitation, he angled towards it, tensed and ready, muscles coiled for action. Solid steps paced him forward in an easy, steady gait. Self-loathing cut his temper short, and he seemed to always be ready for a battle. It was his fault she died, afterall. And it hurt like hell. And pissed him off.
The line of trees began to thin out, and he glanced a figure through them as he drew closer. Pale tones. Defensive posture. Mare. Fearful. Somewhere deep within him, a shadow of himself stirred just out of his reach, like a chained dragon waking from the memory of flight. At one time he would bravely aid the lost or oppressed without a second thought, like some stupid knight in shining armor. But he knew better now. Protection meant attachment. And attachment meant pain. Because he'd fail them, and they'd die. They always died. His mate, his child, his family.
He huffed and snorted, and turned his body to walk away. Let them sort their own damn lives out, he'd only cause more damage. But the beast within him rumbled, and he found his nose once again headed in the direction of the figure. He glared and pinned his ears, wishing he had a reflection to stomp all over, but continued forward. As a bay dun, his face blackened to a dark brown, and his warmed amber eyes were a slight contrast to the darkness around them. Espresso locks were plastered to his sweaty hide.
He halted at a distance he deemed would feel safe to a skittish creature. Or, safe-ish. He supposed he didn't look the friendliest sort, but it couldn't be helped in his current state. Perhaps one day he would heal from his own atrocities. Although he despised himself, he didn't wish to upset the fearful mare further. In an uncharacteristic slip of uncertainty, he glanced around and shifted his weight. He tried to clear his throat but only managed to pull a dry raspy cough from his airways. Rolling his eyes at his amazing successes in calming her thus far, he spoke as gently as he could in a low voice.
"What ails you." Like some arrogant idiot, he managed to make it sound more as an abrupt command than a question. Could he not manage anything to come out civil anymore? What the hell happened to that soft heart his passed mate once described to him?