08-08-2015, 10:13 PM
The long, cold months of winter are nearly at an end. With the promise of summer hanging in the frigid breeze, he allows himself to look forward to the all too brief warmer months ahead. The Tundra has long been his home, so the cold bothers him little. Even still, he rather enjoys the (somewhat tepid) warmth of the summer months. They are nothing compared to even the winter months in the arid climes of the desert, but still they are welcome.
When he finds himself thinking (yet again) of the Deserts and, more importantly, of her, he quickly jerks his mind back to the present. He is disciplined enough that he is able to keep himself relatively focused. Disciplined enough to (mostly) keep his mind off of her. But still he finds thoughts of her creeping in more often than he would care to admit. The urge to seek her out once again sits impatiently within him, but for the moment, he ignores it. They both have duties to see to, in lands so far apart and so vastly different.
And those duties are the reason he is to be found high in the skies, large, pale wings stretched wide as he floats on a thermal. His dark eyes are focused upon the ground as he survey’s the land below him. He has spent the last several hours circling the edges of the kingdom, ensuring everything is in order. He doubts anyone could trespass easily beyond the wall without their noticing, but he is not a trusting sort. So when he sees the lone figure about to enter through the one opening in the wall, he is immediately on alert.
His heart leaps involuntarily in his chest as the thought occurs to him that it could be her. But no. The next moment proves unerringly that it is not. The figure is wrong, the color, the walk. Everything is wrong.
He does not approach immediately. It seems clear in the way he hesitates before entering, in the fact that he is alone and seems to be in no hurry, that he is here for diplomatic purposes. Instead he waits, giving those with more diplomatic acumen than he the opportunity to greet him. When no one approaches and it becomes clear he might easily make it to the center of the kingdom before he stumbles across anyone, Hurricane drops slowly from the sky.
Landing with a thump before the visitor, his dark, steely gaze fixes upon the roan stallion. Tucking his wings easily into his pale sides, he offers his own form of a greeting.
I am Hurricane. What is your purpose here?
When he finds himself thinking (yet again) of the Deserts and, more importantly, of her, he quickly jerks his mind back to the present. He is disciplined enough that he is able to keep himself relatively focused. Disciplined enough to (mostly) keep his mind off of her. But still he finds thoughts of her creeping in more often than he would care to admit. The urge to seek her out once again sits impatiently within him, but for the moment, he ignores it. They both have duties to see to, in lands so far apart and so vastly different.
And those duties are the reason he is to be found high in the skies, large, pale wings stretched wide as he floats on a thermal. His dark eyes are focused upon the ground as he survey’s the land below him. He has spent the last several hours circling the edges of the kingdom, ensuring everything is in order. He doubts anyone could trespass easily beyond the wall without their noticing, but he is not a trusting sort. So when he sees the lone figure about to enter through the one opening in the wall, he is immediately on alert.
His heart leaps involuntarily in his chest as the thought occurs to him that it could be her. But no. The next moment proves unerringly that it is not. The figure is wrong, the color, the walk. Everything is wrong.
He does not approach immediately. It seems clear in the way he hesitates before entering, in the fact that he is alone and seems to be in no hurry, that he is here for diplomatic purposes. Instead he waits, giving those with more diplomatic acumen than he the opportunity to greet him. When no one approaches and it becomes clear he might easily make it to the center of the kingdom before he stumbles across anyone, Hurricane drops slowly from the sky.
Landing with a thump before the visitor, his dark, steely gaze fixes upon the roan stallion. Tucking his wings easily into his pale sides, he offers his own form of a greeting.
I am Hurricane. What is your purpose here?
There is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die.
Hurricane