He’s not entirely sure why he’s stuck around so long today. Few mares have bothered to brave the cold and venture into the field, and those that have, have already been approached by other stallions. Normally this wouldn’t be a problem - he doesn’t mind a little friendly competition - but the cold has always put him in a bit of a bad humour. He supposes it has to do with the nature of his body - pure iron does not do well in cold temperatures. Thankfully the temperatures in the field will never be cold enough to do actual damage to his body.
He’s considering heading back into the herd lands (he still hasn’t settled on one), when a flicker of movement catches his eye. A mare, all by herself.
His keen eyes follow her as she steps into the field, carrying herself in a way that is much unlike the other mares currently in the field. It’s more … proud. More dominant. And he likes it.
He doesn’t head to her immediately however, instead taking a dawdling, circular route in her direction. It gives him all the more time to observe her. And the more he sees, the more he likes.
Finally, he makes his move. He breaks into an open, easy trot, and makes a beeline for her. He doesn’t bother to hide. There’s no point after all - a horse made of pure iron stands out on a snowy field. In fact he hopes he cuts a rather impressive image - 17 hands of metal gleaming in the winter sun isn’t something you’re going to see every day after all.
He stops directly in front of her, and flashes her a wicked grin. “Why hello there. I’m Khaos. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”
He’s considering heading back into the herd lands (he still hasn’t settled on one), when a flicker of movement catches his eye. A mare, all by herself.
His keen eyes follow her as she steps into the field, carrying herself in a way that is much unlike the other mares currently in the field. It’s more … proud. More dominant. And he likes it.
He doesn’t head to her immediately however, instead taking a dawdling, circular route in her direction. It gives him all the more time to observe her. And the more he sees, the more he likes.
Finally, he makes his move. He breaks into an open, easy trot, and makes a beeline for her. He doesn’t bother to hide. There’s no point after all - a horse made of pure iron stands out on a snowy field. In fact he hopes he cuts a rather impressive image - 17 hands of metal gleaming in the winter sun isn’t something you’re going to see every day after all.
He stops directly in front of her, and flashes her a wicked grin. “Why hello there. I’m Khaos. To whom do I owe the pleasure?”
K H A O S
iron son of carnage and oswyn
hell is empty and all the devils are here
Reference here
![here](“http://o.aolcdn.com/hss/storage/fss/68ed0c2438b0d60e11a75ab5bdd2323c/khaos.jpg"){kind=link}