10-10-2017, 05:52 AM
He is a robust colt that had yet to venture from the meadow before yet but he seems to notice the internal compass that guides him to Sylva. His mother has gone off to who knows where but even his young mind and body do not yearn for her. She had been a beautiful creature but much like ice, cold and relentless. Warskin (the name she had given him) had only ever heard her utter the word 'Sylva' with a jut of her dark head, pale mane silhouetting her against the evening sky. War had returned the nod with equal callousness and they quietly parted ways.
He is the color of smoke after a fire has ripped through a loving home. His eyes nearly float against the charcoal with their pale blue-grey under the thickness of his growing mane. Sylva was a contrast to the little he know of Beqanna but he imagines there must be more. The boy had heard of Gryffen, his sire, dwelled her with a cruel eye and iron fist. Warskin knows this because horses talk loudly when they think children are playing. Had he ever really felt his foalhood slip away? How is it that he felt his own mortality in the slip of a sunset at his young age? War does not know but perhaps he is following the lead to something much greater. He damned his young body and bones quietly, watching as taller, stronger men moved around his lanky form with huffs and snorts. He narrows his eyes, remembering their faces and scents before trudging on, wondering what the man looked like that had contributed to his very existence.
Stars do not glint in his eyes. He moves with purpose and with an old soul already occupying his bones. His mother had groomed him to feel nothing, to see only a greatness that lay in the backdrop of his life sequence. These faces, these names, all paltry blips on a massive radar that spun for all existence. Who were the friendly watercrafts and who were the missiles?
Blip. Blip. Blip.
He is the color of smoke after a fire has ripped through a loving home. His eyes nearly float against the charcoal with their pale blue-grey under the thickness of his growing mane. Sylva was a contrast to the little he know of Beqanna but he imagines there must be more. The boy had heard of Gryffen, his sire, dwelled her with a cruel eye and iron fist. Warskin knows this because horses talk loudly when they think children are playing. Had he ever really felt his foalhood slip away? How is it that he felt his own mortality in the slip of a sunset at his young age? War does not know but perhaps he is following the lead to something much greater. He damned his young body and bones quietly, watching as taller, stronger men moved around his lanky form with huffs and snorts. He narrows his eyes, remembering their faces and scents before trudging on, wondering what the man looked like that had contributed to his very existence.
Stars do not glint in his eyes. He moves with purpose and with an old soul already occupying his bones. His mother had groomed him to feel nothing, to see only a greatness that lay in the backdrop of his life sequence. These faces, these names, all paltry blips on a massive radar that spun for all existence. Who were the friendly watercrafts and who were the missiles?
Blip. Blip. Blip.
w a r s k i n
(gryffen and karsi's little fuck trophy)
(gryffen and karsi's little fuck trophy)