04-19-2023, 09:14 PM
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He was just as glad as most when spring had come. Not for its promise of new beginnings and sweet adventures; not for those new to life, or dormant and awakened. It was because, as the days slowly, achingly, lengthened, the struggle to survive had become less of a struggle.
It had been cold when he opened his eyes that first time. Instinct had driven him to devour what brown, tasteless grass he could find, bark and young trees falling prey to his frantic appetite. When the snow did come, it was not long before his tawny hide ill-concealed his hips and ribs, the effort of searching for food a task that required more energy than he could forage. He had found refuge in a small cave and avoided strangers. He had survived. The first few days of spring had passed under a dark cloud of suspicion - how could the sun feel so warm? - but now he is sure the misery of winter is well behind him. Though his gangly form and short-shorn mane speak of a yearling somewhere his second year, the time before his first autumn is a black void in his memory. And even now, as summer slowly fades into autumn, he still does not know that on the other side lies winter in wait.
He treads a landscape that is nearly as desolate as his soul, his unkempt, tawny form winding in and out of the strange, pockmarked formations. His gray/green eyes rove listlessly ahead, shifting from stone to stone to … dragon? An ash-colored plume slid from the overgrown lizard’s nostrils; it was the movement of this smoke as it rose to break apart that drew the young stallion’s unconscious gaze.
He jolts, skittering sideways to take refuge behind a column of rock large enough to hide his waifish figure. Throat dry, he peers out from relative safety to eyeball the gold-flecked drake, prepared to jerk back behind it should the creature notice him. He’s never seen a dragon before. Although, truth be told, there is little that he has seen before. He does not notice that he holds his breath while he contemplates what to do, absently rubbing a shoulder on the rock in front of him, not noticing the sand-colored scales that are slowly freckling his back.
It had been cold when he opened his eyes that first time. Instinct had driven him to devour what brown, tasteless grass he could find, bark and young trees falling prey to his frantic appetite. When the snow did come, it was not long before his tawny hide ill-concealed his hips and ribs, the effort of searching for food a task that required more energy than he could forage. He had found refuge in a small cave and avoided strangers. He had survived. The first few days of spring had passed under a dark cloud of suspicion - how could the sun feel so warm? - but now he is sure the misery of winter is well behind him. Though his gangly form and short-shorn mane speak of a yearling somewhere his second year, the time before his first autumn is a black void in his memory. And even now, as summer slowly fades into autumn, he still does not know that on the other side lies winter in wait.
He treads a landscape that is nearly as desolate as his soul, his unkempt, tawny form winding in and out of the strange, pockmarked formations. His gray/green eyes rove listlessly ahead, shifting from stone to stone to … dragon? An ash-colored plume slid from the overgrown lizard’s nostrils; it was the movement of this smoke as it rose to break apart that drew the young stallion’s unconscious gaze.
He jolts, skittering sideways to take refuge behind a column of rock large enough to hide his waifish figure. Throat dry, he peers out from relative safety to eyeball the gold-flecked drake, prepared to jerk back behind it should the creature notice him. He’s never seen a dragon before. Although, truth be told, there is little that he has seen before. He does not notice that he holds his breath while he contemplates what to do, absently rubbing a shoulder on the rock in front of him, not noticing the sand-colored scales that are slowly freckling his back.
@Roué