07-06-2022, 07:12 AM
It had begun with the rising of the sea, with the loss of the southern quarter. Then had come the fog in Taiga, and the storm in Tephra, and now it feels as if the whole world has taken a massive inhale. They are waiting, poised before the next breath. But what will it be? A gasp, a scream, a shout of relief?
It feels as though he walks a precipice far thinner than the narrow line of hoofprints toward the Meadow, and he wonders as he walks if anyone else feels the same. He cannot worry his younger sisters, and he doesn’t want his mother or cousin to doubt his courage. They never would, of course, even if he speaks of it, but the fear of it remains nonetheless.
Malik shakes his head, as though by the action dispelling some of the concern he feels. The motion is effective, or at least it seems so, for a small smile appears in the place of the earlier frown. His pace does not change, his stripped legs carrying him leisurely through the snow-covered plain and into the Meadow
Midwinter is never lively, yet the stillness of the world around the black stallion is broken only by the soft lament of a cold wind. It lifts the black hair of his mane and tail, and ruffles the iridescent feathers along his shoulders and the thick winter coat he wears. His sharp eyes take in the world around him, settling on the brightest speck of color that he can find.
It is a golden mare - buckskin, he sees as he draws closer, with shading that reminds him of a summer’s forest floor - and an impressive horn. She’s a stranger, as are most that live outside the borders of his mountain home, yet the smile that Malik gives her is warm. There is no sign in his bicolored eyes (one orange, one electric blue) that he is not entirely at ease, but he has done this so many times that it feels almost natural.
“Hello,” he says, stopping just far enough away that he need not raise his voice to be heard over the shush of wind on snow and frozen grasses. “I’m Malik.”
@Famke
It feels as though he walks a precipice far thinner than the narrow line of hoofprints toward the Meadow, and he wonders as he walks if anyone else feels the same. He cannot worry his younger sisters, and he doesn’t want his mother or cousin to doubt his courage. They never would, of course, even if he speaks of it, but the fear of it remains nonetheless.
Malik shakes his head, as though by the action dispelling some of the concern he feels. The motion is effective, or at least it seems so, for a small smile appears in the place of the earlier frown. His pace does not change, his stripped legs carrying him leisurely through the snow-covered plain and into the Meadow
Midwinter is never lively, yet the stillness of the world around the black stallion is broken only by the soft lament of a cold wind. It lifts the black hair of his mane and tail, and ruffles the iridescent feathers along his shoulders and the thick winter coat he wears. His sharp eyes take in the world around him, settling on the brightest speck of color that he can find.
It is a golden mare - buckskin, he sees as he draws closer, with shading that reminds him of a summer’s forest floor - and an impressive horn. She’s a stranger, as are most that live outside the borders of his mountain home, yet the smile that Malik gives her is warm. There is no sign in his bicolored eyes (one orange, one electric blue) that he is not entirely at ease, but he has done this so many times that it feels almost natural.
“Hello,” he says, stopping just far enough away that he need not raise his voice to be heard over the shush of wind on snow and frozen grasses. “I’m Malik.”
@Famke