08-16-2016, 04:36 PM
WEIR
Weir was good at pouting, wouldn’t you say so? The red roan had really taken the loss of his spirit animal to heart, how could he not? The bond between Weir and Darwin had been particularly special and he was devastated at the loss. So much so that he had picked up and moved away from the Dale, away from the memory and the hurt. Of course he could not truly forget Darwin but the absence of all their familiar hangouts helped immensely. The lack of wildlife was also to be considered, there were no turtles in the Tundra and for that Weir was thankful. The loss of Darwin had sucked all the happiness from the place he had known as ‘home’ for so long, Weir felt too deeply to just stay and ‘cope’.
It’s his family that also needed to be thanked, to be acknowledged because they had followed. He knew that Eira had lost her spirit. Rosalind, as well but the children, they at least had been spared of the heartache. Good thing too, Weir wasn’t sure he could handle their little hearts to be broken, that might very well have been the thing to break him too.
As it were Weir was doing okay, taking one day at a time and for the most part keeping to himself and his family. It wasn’t a terribly hard thing to do, even if the Tundra was growing, there were still plenty of empty spaces to find the isolation one desired. Today he wasn’t though, alone that is, he and Rowling were busy in the center of the Kingdom building. Constructing more like, a grand fort of snow and ice. They had only just begun, first having planned out the design for the day. Weir was busy creating lavish details on a tower, while Rowling was creating a wood-like appearance on a drawbridge. Course their fort needed a draw bridge he had told Mother, it would be the best one he ever made too.
Against their building are swirls of snow and ice, billowing threads of blizzards that carefully twist and turn where they are directed. It is truly Magical the way the cold submits and creates where it is needed to, simply from the direction of two roan horses. Against the whistle of winds Weir can still hear a voice calling to him, a woman’s voice, the only woman’s voice in the world as far as he was concerned. He twists his russet neck to peer in the direction of the sound, squinting at the shape and color of Eira and whom he thinks is Lumi at her side. Rowling, noticing his Mother’s halt in workmanship, turns his dark little head in their direction as well. He is excited to show them the fort, squealing loudly for them to come, to come and see.
“Eirrra,” Weir calls over the stretch of ice, sending with it a thin wisp of cool air to curl around their hooves.
It’s his family that also needed to be thanked, to be acknowledged because they had followed. He knew that Eira had lost her spirit. Rosalind, as well but the children, they at least had been spared of the heartache. Good thing too, Weir wasn’t sure he could handle their little hearts to be broken, that might very well have been the thing to break him too.
As it were Weir was doing okay, taking one day at a time and for the most part keeping to himself and his family. It wasn’t a terribly hard thing to do, even if the Tundra was growing, there were still plenty of empty spaces to find the isolation one desired. Today he wasn’t though, alone that is, he and Rowling were busy in the center of the Kingdom building. Constructing more like, a grand fort of snow and ice. They had only just begun, first having planned out the design for the day. Weir was busy creating lavish details on a tower, while Rowling was creating a wood-like appearance on a drawbridge. Course their fort needed a draw bridge he had told Mother, it would be the best one he ever made too.
Against their building are swirls of snow and ice, billowing threads of blizzards that carefully twist and turn where they are directed. It is truly Magical the way the cold submits and creates where it is needed to, simply from the direction of two roan horses. Against the whistle of winds Weir can still hear a voice calling to him, a woman’s voice, the only woman’s voice in the world as far as he was concerned. He twists his russet neck to peer in the direction of the sound, squinting at the shape and color of Eira and whom he thinks is Lumi at her side. Rowling, noticing his Mother’s halt in workmanship, turns his dark little head in their direction as well. He is excited to show them the fort, squealing loudly for them to come, to come and see.
“Eirrra,” Weir calls over the stretch of ice, sending with it a thin wisp of cool air to curl around their hooves.
WINTER HAS COME