Careful steps needed to be minded when you walk on ice. A false judgement of soil or a doubt in your own character could lead you to a pitiful disaster. The pale silver gold stallion knew this first hand not soon after he had made his way into the tundra threshold. He was moving quite easily only to mistep and send his large frame sprawling. He attempts to find his feet and save himself from little embarassment affected him and looking around but there was no other equine in sight so no harm done.
With a shake, he dusts himself off and minds his steps now as he looks for another face in the chilled enviorment. Ragnar seeks such a place for his own well-being. The tundra suited his desires for excell. The cold lands drove his need to achieve and become great. These brothers here could teach him and guide him without distractions.
A low call is given when he scents other equines to announce his presence. It was only polite to do so. "Hello." Not a question but a greeting to possibly unseen bodies. His vocals light and clipped with each pronunciation of the syllables due to his nordic accent. Silver threads of the male's mane catch a cool kiss from the winter winds and drive a clot of hair across the visage of the stallion. Ears movin to catch sounds of others that would hopefully greet him civilly.
Assailant -- Year 226
"But the dream, the echo, slips from him as quickly as he had found it and as consciousness comes to him (a slap and not the gentle waves of oceanic tides), it dissolves entirely. His muscles relax as the cold claims him again, as the numbness sets in, and when his grey eyes open, there’s nothing but the faint after burn of a dream often trod and never remembered." --Brigade, written by Laura
victory or valhalla; any
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12-19-2015, 12:30 PM
the walls kept tumbling down in the city that we love
great clouds rolling over the hills and if you close your eyes, does it almost feel like nothing's changed at all? He is present. Ever present, really, like a bad song stuck in your head forever. brennen immortal, winged, bone-bending, ice-manipulating Tundra warrior
12-27-2015, 09:40 PM
The two Tundra men are similar in their steadfast dedication to the frozen land, both remaining loyal even when not actively present. He had stumbled into the Tundra as a much younger man (a man very different than the one he had grown into), never knowing what hold the place would have on him. But that had been ages ago, in a time remembered only the furthest and dustiest reaches of his memories. And still he remains. He will always remain. The palomino’s entrance into the Tundra does not go unnoticed, nor does Brennen’s arrival. In truth, he is grateful to see the other man awaken from his slumber. While they had not known each other well, he had respected the scarred stallion. He is quick enough to arrive, strong wingbeats carrying him swiftly through the air until he reaches them. Dropping from the sky, he lands near the duo, settling his pale wings against his side as he does so. The yellow stallion seems unsure on his feet, though that is not uncommon with newcomers. Becoming comfortable walking on the perpetually frozen ground of the Tundra is a skill mastered only by time and practice. If the man stays, he would learn soon enough. Brennen greets the man cordially, freeing Hurricane from that responsibility. Affability has never been his strong suit anyway. With little fanfare, he introduces himself directly after the bay stallion. ”And I am Hurricane. What brings you here?” There is never a day that goes by that is a good day to die. Hurricane |
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