Can you please turn yourself down?
Ritalin kids doing cocaine wipe outs.
What was he planning to do in the meadow? What was there to accomplish in the dead of fucking winter other than walk out into the frostbit land and just die? The black skinned stallion looks over the frozen wasteland and nothing, ABSOLUTELY nothing is catching his yellow eyes. His walk is more of a shuffle, a residual act from his shifted form.
The taste of copper still stings his tongue as the red is oxidizing against the skin of his chest and fore limbs. The stallion never ate grass anymore. It was much too satisfying to hunt. The act alone caused his heart to surge, his body completely alive and electric. Flat ivories were nothing compared to hyena fangs. The were capable of splintering flesh and bone just as easily as clipping at the graze under the sheet of ice.
Phynn notices that against the white of his surroundings are a few other horses. Lobes move to catch small clips of their conversations but nothing seems to be worth listening to. In fact, the stallion would prefer to maybe have some company of a mare. Something small, and cute and vulnerable.
P H Y N N
@[Hound]