to taste your skin; any

[w a r s k i n]

Summer is insufferable upon his dark hide. He can only cast a dark eye of disdain towards the sky as he slides between the shadows of a dappled forest to finally find some relief. The charcoal man with haunting eyes look for any hair or sounds of any other who may be lurking just beyond the treeline. So far, most equine had taken to the sunlight to graze and chatter about their days, their homes, their lives. Warskin turns his face away with a rather visible grimace.

The young stallion drop his head to the damp soil, tugging at a few moss spores, indulging in the earthy taste. A hind hoof cocks, he rests his weight on a finely muscles hip as he lifts his heavy head and tangled mane away from his eyes. The meeting with Gryffen had been disappointing. The other boy, (Kasanova?), Warskin thought the boy was far too glittery and far to thin to be of much use other than to approach strangers (much like himself) so boldly. The smokey stallion snorts with a laugh at the paltry attempts to intimidate him. Stupid boy.

For now, War relaxes away from the others. None have piqued his interest. None seemed to harbor much more thickness than the summer's fog. Shallow. Vapid. Worthless. He suspects today will not offer much more.

Such a shame.

w a r s k i n
(gryffen and karsi's little fuck trophy)

[Insignificance]

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Some things, I have a difficulty understanding.  What I am doing here, why this place feels so familiar, what I am to make of myself, and so on. I have always found it much easier being on my own, without having to interact with acquaintances as pointless as my lengthy travels, without having to speak on matters that do not concern me, but lately I have found myself thirsting for the company of others. I am, despite my age, a sullen, mud-brown creature, more prone to silence and reserved judgment than outspoken and calamitous. I am not evil. I am not kind. I am something in-between, implausible and slightly unsettling. Civil, yes, but not moreso than anyone else.  No, I am no great thinker.  I am not my mother, even though she’d expect that of me.   I should be the color of black and white motley, blue eyes and in the inheritance of madness, sporting illusions of grandeur. But I am not. Instead I am curious, and that vast curiosity is greasy, sticky as it spreads luxuriously over my entire constitution. My eyes are brown and dull, but all seeing no less, my mane is unkempt and matted by dust—almost grey against my mud-brown skin. As such, I walked Beqanna, day and night, glancing at their everyday much as an observer must, never partaking, never indulging, always watching, listening, forming conclusions in the quiet of my mind. For what, still remains unsaid—but there is a purpose, somewhere.  Today is no different – except for the interference of another in my quiet contemplation. He hasn´t seen me – and for a moment I contemplate turning tail and running away the other direction but there it seems a futile attempt. He would most likely catch me halfway and also – there is something about the look on his face that has piqued my interest. Contempt. Still quiet – I take a step forth from under the bark of a large tree that´s melted into the brown of my gaunt body that has temporarily rendered me unseen to the stallion’s keen eyes. Now, a normal horse might have said something – offered up a name or anything along those lines. But I am not normal and as awkward with conversations as the ungraceful angles of my blunt face. So I just stand there – watching. A hapless speck of dirt and brown in a sea of green.   "Pray that your loneliness may spur you into finding something to live for, great enough to die for."   insignificance