great clouds rolling over the hills
and if you close your eyes, does it almost feel
He is present. Ever present, really, like a bad song stuck in your head forever.
He told himself he was staying until the Tundra froze over again, to once again summon the great ice wall to protect his Brothers. And then he was staying to rid them of the madman they briefly called King. And then his continued presence was in support of Errant, a man to whom he was willing to pledge his loyalty despite the many problems of their past. But yet all of these things have passed, and still Brennen stands poised at the top of a cliff, frosted in ice from being stationary for too long, and he is quiet. A hibernation-like state in which he has immersed himself many times before.
But even an immortal grows bored of stillness, of silence, and he flexes his wings to crack the thin sheen of ice that has settled there, blinking his eyes open and shaking vigorously to rid himself of the snow that has settled on his back and head, leaving him nearly invisible in the weather. Spreading his wings the stallion drifts down from his mountain ledge perch, watching the stallion proceeding awkwardly into the Tundra, before landing on the permafrost with a creak of frozen ground under a creature that weighs nearly a thousand pounds.
He’s behind the other man, though surely the creak would have alerted him, and he forces words from his long-dry throat in response to the query. “Hullo.” is his response as he stretches his wings all the way to their extent, enjoying the feel of them loosening from long-held stiffness, before folding them once more flat to his sides. “Welcome to the Tundra. I’m Brennen.” He perhaps has to right to greet a newcomer in his current state of long disuse, but he is more native to the Tundra than any of its current residents. Not born here (the Beach will always claim that honor) but he has been here since childhood, and his life is longer than they know.