let my shadows prove the sunshine
The mid-afternoon sun is unforgiving in Tephra; even in spring the atmosphere is sweltering, the air hanging heavily across the landscape with humidity. The moisture is something Svedka is rather used to, having grown up here, but even for him it is still uncomfortable as it swathes him, keeping the flaxen and sky blue of his mane and forelock plastered against the golden champagne of his neck. He snorts softly as he trudges quite slowly through the thick canopy of the jungle that just skirts the edge of Tephra’s beaches - ones that were dark with volcano’s ash, unlike the pristine white sands of Ischia and her bordering isles. Tephra was a beautiful tropical escape, however the smell of smoke and the deep navy colored seas were not as welcoming as other places may appear to be.
Without hesitation, the palomino overo uses his head to push the broad, fat leaves of the jungle away from his face, finding some kind of satisfaction in the way the moisture flicks onto his skin as he does so. He’s moving slowly but purposefully, his cerulean gaze set towards the ocean in the near distance, the salt of the sea spray on the wind. Just as the damp floor of the jungle begins to give way to thin, trickling sand and the thick of the canopy begins to deplete, Svedka comes to a halt, halfway beneath the shade of the trees while his shoulders and face meet the brightness of the sun.
He stands here for a moment, suspended and frozen in time, with his eyes closed and his chin towards the sky. The sun and the salt and the wind all combine and wash over him, a mixture that seems to scrub him clean. He inhales deeply with a shuddering breath, searching the depths of himself for the familiar pang of the lion, and finding nothing. Perhaps the beast had become dormant, like he had hoped, and he finally had some control over his life. With this revelation in mind, Svedka propels forward and settles into an easy lope, headed straight for the sea.
Only the surprisingly cool water touches the white of his legs he slows to a lazy trot. The burnt orange plumerias in his mane have fallen away, his braid nearly undone as the sea wind whips at him hungrily. Only a single bud remains in the white and skyblue of his tangled mane, clinging to him for dear life as he splashes into the sea, runs up into the sand again, then back down into the knee-deep surf. The water is a bit too rough at high tide for him to swim any further than shoulder-depth, and he idly passes the time by thinking about how much more delightful this would be with a companion beside him.
svedka
@[elio]