THINKING OF YOU IS A POISON I DRINK OFTEN
He is a lonely one, our Dalten.
He was not always so lonely though, no, he had once found company in the strangest of places. Far beyond the borders of Beqanna, where wild horses are simply wild and magic isn’t heard of at all, Dalten had settled himself into a new life. A life where things seemed more simple, a more placid way to thrive. Where the trees seemed like just trees, and cougars stayed cougars and water stayed water and no one fought over who lead what and where.
Ah, simplistic, he thought. The simplistic way to living.
And then she accompanied him, her with her ebony black mane and taunting spotted flank with a coat tossed of white, charcoal, and blue. She was built in the most delicate way, with a soft dished face and deep brown eyes easy to lose yourself in. Her presence always warm and calming, her tone more allievating than the way a creek stream consoles his pasterns.
You know, I am so grateful you came here. I don’t know where my life would be if you hadn’t…
Though her voice disappears into the forest clamor, as squirrels around him buzz and birds take flight for their morning adventure. He refocuses on the here and now, awaking from his moment of reminisce before letting out a large stretch through his front end. As if to pump himself up for another day of Beqanna bullshit.
Oh, Dalten, it cannot be so bad anymore. It’s been years, remember?
Vaguely. He vaguely remembers anyone or anything, hence why he had left so suddenly. His pure annoyance had built to the point where he had decided to live a hermit in some faraway nomansland than stay here another hour.
I will be back this afternoon. Do you care for a visit to the river later?
Chills fall down his spine. Time to move.
He exits the forest veil of white snow and ice, emerging from the treeline with sure-footedness and elegance. In the winter, he trades in his fit build for a more robust “fluffy” style. He had exploded with winter hair and turned into a ginormous oversized bunny-rabbit in less than a month and he hadn’t quite come to terms with it yet.
You could argue that he is admitting insecurity, but that would be quite the leap for our charcoal brute to admit.
He is casual in his pace. Afterall, when you have nowhere to be you have no timeline to adhere to. It felt nice, almost like an early retirement. As if at his spry age of 8 years, he had worked long enough to call it quits.
Perhaps not physically, but mentally? Maybe.
He falls to the river edge, a bank that he had grown preference towards over the last few days being home. Home, how unfortunate that the commonlands are called home right now. There was a time when Dalten had been taught about homelessness and recruitment and the importance of building a kingdom. He used to find horses like himself, quiet and quaint and easily satisfied with minimal drama and aloofness. Unlike most, he found the awkward silence comforting. As if he too could slip into a space of uncertainty with them and pull them out, give them a feeling of relatability and support.
That was back then though, and this is now. This is after he had invested his last dime into someone who he felt needed it. He is out of change.
So, our grey-painted stallion stands in a noble form, looking off down the river as he sees a salmon break free of the watered-ceiling like the most cliche picturesque picture of a horse to date. The wind flapping his tangled and matted mane, his tail left to flail behind him like a train.
@[lilliana]