01-11-2017, 12:07 AM
He prefers the silence in the forest, jarred only by the odd creak of wind in the branches above his head.
Those same branches sway in a precarious dance of intrigue and threat; the threat is the dumping of armfuls of snow on him but he is not afraid. He eyes their miserable movements and dares them with a single look to soak him in snow and cold, but the branches shiver and settle back into place, the snow subsiding sloppily above him like miniscule avalanches that cannot gather enough speed to roll downhill. Besides, he’s damp enough as it is - damp all the way down to his bones, beneath the thick fur and trappings of heat that do not little enough to thwart the cold. It settles in him, like an ache he just can’t shake and he thinks that gentler temperatures can’t come soon enough. But since when has nature ever been gentle to him?
Gun knows nature in extremes - extreme heat, extreme cold, thirst or starvation.
He thirsts no more, since coming here.
He hungers no more, since coming here.
But still suffers the cold as if it is little more than a thorn in his side.
Snow plops down on his back and drives him forth from beneath the shelter of the branches.
He knew the slender boughs would bend beneath the accumulating snow and it had. So much so, that he now had to shake the snow off his back and find a new place to almost hibernate in - that’s how it felt to him, that he shored up against the cold like a damn bear and took to hibernating because he had nothing better to do, not since Caw up and left them and not since his encounter with the magic-mare that made lightning sing across her skin. Gun was beginning to realize that he sought them out - the strange, the different, the Un-horse. He could not say why but it happened to be that way since he was a milksop of a foal.
Maybe that is why he encounters her in the snowy woods that day at that particular moment.
(He never believe it in Fate, things just aren’t fated to be.)
She is of similar height, similar shape and spots even, then the differences begin. Or rather the singular difference begins in the horns that spiral up from her brow. He might have thought her lovely if he had a head for such things, but he saw only the horns and the mean twist of them that said she had weaponized them as he had his teeth and hooves (still blunt, not as sharp as the tips of her horns looked to be). In the end, it did not matter because he gave pause to where he was going and just stared at her like he’d never seen anything like her before and in truth, he hadn’t.
Those same branches sway in a precarious dance of intrigue and threat; the threat is the dumping of armfuls of snow on him but he is not afraid. He eyes their miserable movements and dares them with a single look to soak him in snow and cold, but the branches shiver and settle back into place, the snow subsiding sloppily above him like miniscule avalanches that cannot gather enough speed to roll downhill. Besides, he’s damp enough as it is - damp all the way down to his bones, beneath the thick fur and trappings of heat that do not little enough to thwart the cold. It settles in him, like an ache he just can’t shake and he thinks that gentler temperatures can’t come soon enough. But since when has nature ever been gentle to him?
Gun knows nature in extremes - extreme heat, extreme cold, thirst or starvation.
He thirsts no more, since coming here.
He hungers no more, since coming here.
But still suffers the cold as if it is little more than a thorn in his side.
Snow plops down on his back and drives him forth from beneath the shelter of the branches.
He knew the slender boughs would bend beneath the accumulating snow and it had. So much so, that he now had to shake the snow off his back and find a new place to almost hibernate in - that’s how it felt to him, that he shored up against the cold like a damn bear and took to hibernating because he had nothing better to do, not since Caw up and left them and not since his encounter with the magic-mare that made lightning sing across her skin. Gun was beginning to realize that he sought them out - the strange, the different, the Un-horse. He could not say why but it happened to be that way since he was a milksop of a foal.
Maybe that is why he encounters her in the snowy woods that day at that particular moment.
(He never believe it in Fate, things just aren’t fated to be.)
She is of similar height, similar shape and spots even, then the differences begin. Or rather the singular difference begins in the horns that spiral up from her brow. He might have thought her lovely if he had a head for such things, but he saw only the horns and the mean twist of them that said she had weaponized them as he had his teeth and hooves (still blunt, not as sharp as the tips of her horns looked to be). In the end, it did not matter because he gave pause to where he was going and just stared at her like he’d never seen anything like her before and in truth, he hadn’t.