11-27-2020, 11:07 AM
He's grown, the green colt with the worried claret eyes has become a grown man, though youth still shines from every inch of his body. He has grown tall and confident with a natural smile and curiosity in his gaze. Florian does not regret leaving his shifting atop the Mountain, and can think of no reason why he would ever return. He is better off without the magic curse that once gripped his heart in crushing vines.
He moves with practiced ease through the deepwood, slipping between the cold, dark, trees like a creature born to them. It comes of living among them -of course, these are not his trees, his hide smells of the earth-and-smoke smell of Sylva's autumnal wood, a place more open and warm than this one. Still, his affinity for the forest is strong, he prefers the close trees (and now that he no longer fears abruptly turning into a gourd, he is less worried about the dangers that lurk there,) to the wide and open expanse of the Meadow or the wild crashing of the turbulent river that slices the continent in half like a blade.
Florian follows along the deer trails near the forest's eastern edge, picking at the winter browse as he passes. The food is better in Sylva where winter never quite reaches, here the fruits and grasses are dried and dull, and the most common food of all are buds and twigs snapped off trees and low scrub. He is chewing thoughtfully on a bitter floret picked from a close-by eastern hemlock when he happens on the little lone wolf, and, watches closely with those burgundy eyes as the creature growls to itself and drifts somewhere between canine and equine before finally settling. He swallows the well-chewed bud at last and steps forward, head dropped to the wolf's height and that charming grin breaking up the fir-tree color of his face with a blaze of white teeth.
"You'd think a wolf with hooves would be terrifying, but somehow it's just too ridiculous to be scared of."
He moves with practiced ease through the deepwood, slipping between the cold, dark, trees like a creature born to them. It comes of living among them -of course, these are not his trees, his hide smells of the earth-and-smoke smell of Sylva's autumnal wood, a place more open and warm than this one. Still, his affinity for the forest is strong, he prefers the close trees (and now that he no longer fears abruptly turning into a gourd, he is less worried about the dangers that lurk there,) to the wide and open expanse of the Meadow or the wild crashing of the turbulent river that slices the continent in half like a blade.
Florian follows along the deer trails near the forest's eastern edge, picking at the winter browse as he passes. The food is better in Sylva where winter never quite reaches, here the fruits and grasses are dried and dull, and the most common food of all are buds and twigs snapped off trees and low scrub. He is chewing thoughtfully on a bitter floret picked from a close-by eastern hemlock when he happens on the little lone wolf, and, watches closely with those burgundy eyes as the creature growls to itself and drifts somewhere between canine and equine before finally settling. He swallows the well-chewed bud at last and steps forward, head dropped to the wolf's height and that charming grin breaking up the fir-tree color of his face with a blaze of white teeth.
"You'd think a wolf with hooves would be terrifying, but somehow it's just too ridiculous to be scared of."
Oh. My. Gourd.
Image by Tekke-Draws
@[Skjoldolfr]