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Hound has been basking in the winter. Death, decay, and the cold surround her. She loves it, she flourishes in it. She cannot help but wonder how many more winters she will spend aimlessly trekking through an earth she no longer wants to live on. Rage, red rage, is set so deeply in her bones she can no longer remember when it got there. Or why it got there. She hates her mother, perhaps that is the cause? But to have such deep rooted spite there must be something causing it. Hound does not know.
She stalks through the forest. The trees provide her cover, since her coat does quite the opposite. Have you ever tried to hide from the eyes of others, only to remember you're a damn Knabstrup and your coat is white with notable brown spots all over it? If you haven't you should definitely give it a shot. It's absolutely insufferable. As is her entire existence, so really...what's new?
That's when she saw him. She rarely saw anyone who carried herself with the sheer boldness and carefree demeanor in which she presented herself. A stallion, of course. Men were so fucking proud. She snarled, but was somehow drawn to the creature because she would gladly challenge anyone who came across stronger than her. Hound was not afraid of death. She was not afraid to fight, to fall, to fail. She thrived on struggling, yet somehow coming out on top. And so, for whatever reason today is different than most days.
Hound confidently strides up, each step pointedly slapping the ground to make her presence known long before she ever actually arrives. With a sudden, harsh halt, a few melting pieces of snow and ice fly up under her feet.
"Excuse me." She scoffed, as if the stallion had been in her way and not directly in her path she forged. "I'm trying to walk here."
Hound
@[Phynn]