Scars are not a new sight to him. Not by a long shot. He has been fortunate in that the scars he has obtained naturally have been minimal and relatively invisible, especially when you take into account the fact that his coat is thick and shaggy more often than it is not. But the Tundra is rather well known for its scars. Not the scars of battle, but something far more significant. The loss of their scars had been alarming, unsettling, at first. But they are returning. Slowly, but nevertheless, they are returning. The faintest hint of the scar that would one day fully grace his shoulder can be seen in the brief summer months, when his coat shorter. Today though, his pale hair is thick and ruffled, already preparing for the rapidly encroaching tundra winter.
He is in the field again today, roaming the area as he has been so often of late. The Tundra needs men. Men willing to work and fight. Men who want to make something of themselves. Hurricane is here to find them.
It is true, not all are suited for the harsher lifestyle the Tundra provides. It takes a certain type of stallion to succeed there. He knows this all too well. But he would gain nothing if he did not try. So, to that effect, he is here, wings beating strongly as he makes another pass over the grassy expanse of the field.
When he sees them he almost continues on. Almost. Until he notes that they are, in fact, not like the majority of the small groups dotting the landscape. He eyes them for a moment, watching as the mare approaches the stallion, as she introduces herself. Dropping from the sky, he lands easily a short distance from the duo, tucking his large, pale wings neatly against his sides as he steps closer.
He has arrived in time to catch the tail end of the gray stallion’s words, discovering in this way that he is called Syden and the mare Estonia. He halts a comfortable distance from the pair, dipping his head slightly in greeting.
”I am Hurricane.” Pause. ”You’ll find, I think, that the bold mares in this land far outnumber the timid ones.”
Were it not for the stone-faced expression on his face, one might have thought he had actually cracked a joke there. But then, he is not particularly well known for his good humor. Oh, certainly, he has a sense of humor. But he has grown rather good at hiding it beneath the hard demeanor he so often presents.
”Am I safe in assuming you are here in search of a home?”
That is more like him. Blunt (sometimes to the point of rudeness, though it is not typically intentional), unwilling to waste time, and honest to a fault.
He is in the field again today, roaming the area as he has been so often of late. The Tundra needs men. Men willing to work and fight. Men who want to make something of themselves. Hurricane is here to find them.
It is true, not all are suited for the harsher lifestyle the Tundra provides. It takes a certain type of stallion to succeed there. He knows this all too well. But he would gain nothing if he did not try. So, to that effect, he is here, wings beating strongly as he makes another pass over the grassy expanse of the field.
When he sees them he almost continues on. Almost. Until he notes that they are, in fact, not like the majority of the small groups dotting the landscape. He eyes them for a moment, watching as the mare approaches the stallion, as she introduces herself. Dropping from the sky, he lands easily a short distance from the duo, tucking his large, pale wings neatly against his sides as he steps closer.
He has arrived in time to catch the tail end of the gray stallion’s words, discovering in this way that he is called Syden and the mare Estonia. He halts a comfortable distance from the pair, dipping his head slightly in greeting.
”I am Hurricane.” Pause. ”You’ll find, I think, that the bold mares in this land far outnumber the timid ones.”
Were it not for the stone-faced expression on his face, one might have thought he had actually cracked a joke there. But then, he is not particularly well known for his good humor. Oh, certainly, he has a sense of humor. But he has grown rather good at hiding it beneath the hard demeanor he so often presents.
”Am I safe in assuming you are here in search of a home?”
That is more like him. Blunt (sometimes to the point of rudeness, though it is not typically intentional), unwilling to waste time, and honest to a fault.
There is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die.
Hurricane
