02-23-2016, 11:34 PM
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?”
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
