07-28-2016, 08:22 AM
WEIR
Too bad he was too low to appreciate the enthusiastic welcoming he had received. Not merely one horse but three of the Tundra’s residents had seen to him and his. On any other day Weir would have been elated at such a gathering, bright eyed and curious to each of the individuals, today he was not so enthusiastic. He couldn’t find his pep at the moment, taking shelter within himself instead, behind layers of ice and hoarfrost.
They are all kind enough, not overly suspicious or cross at his surprise arrival. The only one seeming put out was Graeme and in truth he hadn’t waited for any of them to keep up really, he simply let them know he must go and that they could come too if they wished. He was too broken to insist they stay with him, that his family stick together and had they not come on their own accord he would have been in even worse shape than he was now.
A young mare finds them first, a young woman that blends into her surroundings, that is, until she notices the pair at the gate. Quickly enough she approaches them as a new shade, a radiant gold like the rising sun and usually Weir would have been intrigued. Right now he simply stands, statuesque as she approaches them. Maybe he should have said something more because she did not seem to take note of the gentle rise and fall of his sides. It would appear she thought him a true horse of snow and once upon a time he might have laughed at this, a robust chortle for the humor of the situation. Instead when she asks him how he is he simply blinks, a blank stare in her direction before he finds words of response. “Not very well I’m afraid,” he admits, unresponding as she plants her rear into the ground with her surprise.
Another bleeds into the group, a dappled male and Weir blinks to him as well. He does enough to dip his head in greeting, Rowling wiggling his ears at his side looking back and forth between the two horses. It’s a shame the boy couldn’t hear, he would likely be the mouthpiece for them both if he had ever attempted speech. The one that catches the ice-man by surprise is the black to approach their gathering, and in his grief Weir momentarily wonders how his daughter had arrived before them. He looks over his shoulder once, certain he spots a glint of silver in the distance, she had not yet come afterall. It isn’t her indeed, the boy is quick to speak and Weir’s eyes widen briefly as he takes it all in. Vaughn, the name falls like a brick in his skull and presses mightily against his chest. It is only because Weir is smart enough to put two and two together, he did not need the ombre blue mare there to tell him the nature of the boy’s parentage.
At his side Rowling too is surprised, wiggling his ears and bleating as he dashes around the dark boy. He quickly looks him over, head up, down, side, side and he reaches his small nose out to sniff. It wasn’t his sister, but it looked a lot like her, save for the flopped ear and lack of tinsel. The child’s ebony topped head turned to look at his Mother, head tilted, before letters quickly scrawled themselves in the snow. ‘Fastlane’ it said and to accompany the word two miniatures sprang up from the frost as well, one a boy with a flopped ear, the other a girl shining streaks of ice in the mane and tail of the replica.
Weir only nodded in return, quickly making his own tiny horse, bigger than both the previous sculptures, much more refined too. The details were uncanny in Weir’s projection, a stout stallion, hardened muscles unmissed and an icy infinity symbol emblazoned on it’s chest.
Before he could answer any more questions though, a sixth party made an appearance, his little daughter Graeme who was most upset at him. She took the reigns with introductions and she knew exactly why they had come, Weir confirmed the request when she finished. “We’ve come to stay a spell if you’ve the room. Is your King around, Offspring?”
They are all kind enough, not overly suspicious or cross at his surprise arrival. The only one seeming put out was Graeme and in truth he hadn’t waited for any of them to keep up really, he simply let them know he must go and that they could come too if they wished. He was too broken to insist they stay with him, that his family stick together and had they not come on their own accord he would have been in even worse shape than he was now.
A young mare finds them first, a young woman that blends into her surroundings, that is, until she notices the pair at the gate. Quickly enough she approaches them as a new shade, a radiant gold like the rising sun and usually Weir would have been intrigued. Right now he simply stands, statuesque as she approaches them. Maybe he should have said something more because she did not seem to take note of the gentle rise and fall of his sides. It would appear she thought him a true horse of snow and once upon a time he might have laughed at this, a robust chortle for the humor of the situation. Instead when she asks him how he is he simply blinks, a blank stare in her direction before he finds words of response. “Not very well I’m afraid,” he admits, unresponding as she plants her rear into the ground with her surprise.
Another bleeds into the group, a dappled male and Weir blinks to him as well. He does enough to dip his head in greeting, Rowling wiggling his ears at his side looking back and forth between the two horses. It’s a shame the boy couldn’t hear, he would likely be the mouthpiece for them both if he had ever attempted speech. The one that catches the ice-man by surprise is the black to approach their gathering, and in his grief Weir momentarily wonders how his daughter had arrived before them. He looks over his shoulder once, certain he spots a glint of silver in the distance, she had not yet come afterall. It isn’t her indeed, the boy is quick to speak and Weir’s eyes widen briefly as he takes it all in. Vaughn, the name falls like a brick in his skull and presses mightily against his chest. It is only because Weir is smart enough to put two and two together, he did not need the ombre blue mare there to tell him the nature of the boy’s parentage.
At his side Rowling too is surprised, wiggling his ears and bleating as he dashes around the dark boy. He quickly looks him over, head up, down, side, side and he reaches his small nose out to sniff. It wasn’t his sister, but it looked a lot like her, save for the flopped ear and lack of tinsel. The child’s ebony topped head turned to look at his Mother, head tilted, before letters quickly scrawled themselves in the snow. ‘Fastlane’ it said and to accompany the word two miniatures sprang up from the frost as well, one a boy with a flopped ear, the other a girl shining streaks of ice in the mane and tail of the replica.
Weir only nodded in return, quickly making his own tiny horse, bigger than both the previous sculptures, much more refined too. The details were uncanny in Weir’s projection, a stout stallion, hardened muscles unmissed and an icy infinity symbol emblazoned on it’s chest.
Before he could answer any more questions though, a sixth party made an appearance, his little daughter Graeme who was most upset at him. She took the reigns with introductions and she knew exactly why they had come, Weir confirmed the request when she finished. “We’ve come to stay a spell if you’ve the room. Is your King around, Offspring?”
WINTER HAS COME