pure as fallen snow ; any

[Texas]

there was something in the water, now that something's in me

i can't go back, but the reeds are growing out of my fingertips

Texas might qualify as a ‘stubborn stallion’, but he’s never been inclined to use force when manipulation has always yielded far better results. He’s handsome enough to be excused violating social norms and clever enough to talk himself out of trouble, and most definitely old enough to know better than both of those. He’s also entirely disinclined to bother with knowing better and the addition of another crown has done nothing to temper his already gargantuan ego.

“Hey there,” he says to the first mare he sees, a spotted roan that seems to be trying to hide. The bay stallion does not press too close, but he is toeing the line and clearly aware of it if the grin on his face is any sign. Yet despite his nearness and the appreciative eye that flits across her red and white body, nothing about the lanky horse is at all threatening. His posture his casual – lazy even – and after his initial glance even his brown gaze begins to wander across the Field.

“What brings you to the Field?” He asks, counting the number of horses in the meadow while doing his best to determine if any of them are recruiters from other kingdoms, or if the entire assembled lot are in search of homes. There are more horses here than he is accustomed to, but perhaps he has never been here this time of year before. After a moment, he turns back to the roan mare and adds in his drawling voice: “I’m Texas, by the way. From the Falls.”

texas