08-16-2016, 09:46 AM
Scalped would have a chunk of his hide if he did not mind his manners; that was one thing she had instilled in him early on - be respectful to mares, to all, in fact and he tried to be, despite the bitterness in his heart that begged for him to be crueler than that. He could blame her too, (unfairly, maybe) for the call of the wild that their blood always answered to. That had sowed the seeds of ruin in his relationship with Ygritte, though she had always loved her kingdom more than him and that was in truth, the downfall of what they had innocently begun years ago in the meadow. Loved her land more, and loved her king as much as that, and spared no more thought towards Mandan. He had become a ghost, a bitter hulking ghost of himself that could do little more than reap the benefits of some warm flesh to cuddle beside on chilly fall nights. Come morning, he left them in the family way and came for his sons and daughters afterwards. He instilled in them, the same manners Scalped taught him and therefore, he could be nothing but proper even as his socialization skills began to suffer from a lack of companionship, which he was still unsure of.
Why had he done this thing besides it being a quirk of nature?
No matter, it is done all the same and she is here now, with him.
(He will lie to himself, that it isn’t that her loneliness called to his or that his answered hers in that same lonely way that each of them knows.)
Mandan has kept his eyes on her all this time; is startled to see that hers are honey brown, but they linger a little too long on his face and it is he that looks away first, like she has seen too much of him in that one look they shared. “Probably,” he mutters, not sure if he wanted to pick at the nature of why he chose this, or why she chose it with him. He could tell she respected his brusque approach, but… he thinks there is almost a curiousness about her that makes her want to pry and he is too stubborn to admit that he too, was as lonely as she was. Or that he too, was as curious about herd life even though it ought to come more natural to him - he’d considered it once, face buried in a salmon-pink mane, breathing in the smell of her fur as it tickled his nostrils; Ygritte always smelled of flowers, as if she were a flower herself.
He starts at the memory, at the ease that it came to him from right out of the blue like a bolt of lightning that stunned him. Mandan thinks she hadn’t noticed - she’s been looking at the waterfall again, the shadow of memories playing across her own face like they have on his. “The jungle - never been there,” but he has heard of it, his older half-sister had a brief dalliance there before she preferred popping out foal after foal like their mother has done for most of her life. Granted, Scalped is beyond ancient and ever since her brief flirtations with the Falls and the Deserts, the medicine hat mare has opted to grow fat with foal than make something of herself. He supposes that his mother has had no reason to make her name known; they manage to do that for her, except him, what must she think of her wayward son?
Xero’s eyes find his and he finds that he cannot look away, or doesn’t want to look away, but he refuses to admit it could be the latter. She wants to know what drew him to this place; what can he tell her? The canyons called to his heart, or the bits of it that did not suffer the same ruin as the rest. It was the lone shadow of the eagle on red rock, the lone shrill of wind across that same rock, and the way his shadow grew larger than he was and that it was the only thing to keep him company which was how he liked it. He settles for this as his answer, “The loneliness of it.” and his eyes burn despite their blackness, and he thinks that he she might know what he means by that.
Why had he done this thing besides it being a quirk of nature?
No matter, it is done all the same and she is here now, with him.
(He will lie to himself, that it isn’t that her loneliness called to his or that his answered hers in that same lonely way that each of them knows.)
Mandan has kept his eyes on her all this time; is startled to see that hers are honey brown, but they linger a little too long on his face and it is he that looks away first, like she has seen too much of him in that one look they shared. “Probably,” he mutters, not sure if he wanted to pick at the nature of why he chose this, or why she chose it with him. He could tell she respected his brusque approach, but… he thinks there is almost a curiousness about her that makes her want to pry and he is too stubborn to admit that he too, was as lonely as she was. Or that he too, was as curious about herd life even though it ought to come more natural to him - he’d considered it once, face buried in a salmon-pink mane, breathing in the smell of her fur as it tickled his nostrils; Ygritte always smelled of flowers, as if she were a flower herself.
He starts at the memory, at the ease that it came to him from right out of the blue like a bolt of lightning that stunned him. Mandan thinks she hadn’t noticed - she’s been looking at the waterfall again, the shadow of memories playing across her own face like they have on his. “The jungle - never been there,” but he has heard of it, his older half-sister had a brief dalliance there before she preferred popping out foal after foal like their mother has done for most of her life. Granted, Scalped is beyond ancient and ever since her brief flirtations with the Falls and the Deserts, the medicine hat mare has opted to grow fat with foal than make something of herself. He supposes that his mother has had no reason to make her name known; they manage to do that for her, except him, what must she think of her wayward son?
Xero’s eyes find his and he finds that he cannot look away, or doesn’t want to look away, but he refuses to admit it could be the latter. She wants to know what drew him to this place; what can he tell her? The canyons called to his heart, or the bits of it that did not suffer the same ruin as the rest. It was the lone shadow of the eagle on red rock, the lone shrill of wind across that same rock, and the way his shadow grew larger than he was and that it was the only thing to keep him company which was how he liked it. He settles for this as his answer, “The loneliness of it.” and his eyes burn despite their blackness, and he thinks that he she might know what he means by that.