the new face ; hurricane, reap, any

[Dalten]

The snow, it touches me.

It touches me in a way I am not used to. I want to say caressed, but I do not know that feeling. I know only the touch of my mother, how she gingerly stroked my neck and picked at my wither. How her body felt against my own, radiating heat on chilled fall mornings. I know not of this touch, this chilled icy blow. I don’t know of this elegant shrill of ice nipping at my eyes and infuriating my nostrils. They burn from the air, like pepper in chipotle sauce.

The Tundra feels far from the Dale, and the route makes me feel nostalgic. I feel I long for something, something I do not quite understand yet something that makes me feel anxious. What is it about the icy palace that brings my blood to a burning boil?

Maybe the thought of being more than a shadow dweller.

Maybe even, the thought of being something Lagertha can be proud of.

I am sorry, mom.

I feel the soft glow of the rising sun begin to illuminate my hind. The sky is crystal clear, and it reminds me of home. It reminds me of the baby blue lake that glistened every afternoon, surrounded by jungle noise and chaos. It makes me feel at ease, like she is at my shoulder and watching over me.

I miss my mom, I truly do.

One day I will have the courage to face her.

The farther along I get, the softer the snow crumbles beneath my weight; feather-like and moistened. I know it is warming in the Tundra, but for a brute transferring from the dry but warm forest it feels like a winter morning.

I pay no mind to the plethora of birds flying above my head, swarming my body with curiosity. Even they have taken note to the new life form approaching the kingdom border.

Hallelujah for being the odd one out. The new kid.

I pull to a halt where I feel it is appropriate, just barely touching the Tundra territory. My dappled grey coat blends into the surrounding but my scent surely will not. I smell alien. I am foreign.

Someone will come along. Someone will decide if I am welcome in or not.

DALTEN

maybe there's a shark in the water

[Hurricane]

Over the years, he has become one with the Tundra. It is as much a part of him as he is a part of it. There are memories of other lands, now distant and broken with time, but none have ever entrenched themselves into his being, his very soul, the way this frozen wasteland has. Though to call it a wasteland is perhaps a bit harsh. It blooms - somewhat anemically and all too briefly - once every year during the short summer months. Still, hardy grasses grow and stubborn plants with tiny blossoms peek their heads out year after year.

But now, in this moment, there is only snow. A cold, endless blanket of white coating the land in crystalline purity. His coat blends with near perfection into the landscape. Enough so that the otherwise faint dappling upon his pale coat stands out in stubborn relief to the monotonous hue. He stands in complete stillness and unnerving focus as his dark gaze surveys the entry to the kingdom. The wind blows fiercely, ruffling pale feathers and whipping the snow into biting flurries, but still he waits.

He had seen the stranger coming from some distance, his habit of patrolling the skies giving him more than ample warning to the arrival. The newcomer is still some distance away, having apparently halted near the very edges of the kingdom. After several long moments, the pale stallion finally breaks the chilly silence as he starts forward, his legs breaking the deep snow with long-practiced ease.

As he nears, he studies the other stallion thoroughly. He cannot know why the other man has come, cannot know his history, but he does know that he seems to have come seeking something. What it is, he would no doubt soon learn.

Drawing to a halt, he eyes the newcomer with stony regard. After a moment, he introduces himself, his words of greeting as brusque as his demeanor.

”I am Hurricane. What brings you to the Tundra?”

There is never a day that goes by

that is a good day to die.

Hurricane