He is a mess of black hair lifting in the wind with deep dapples tarnishing his grey coat. Blue eyes, more vivid than a firefly igniting shadows in the dark, set cold stone on the Tundra border line. He lingers along the cliff, eyeing the descent into the snowy escape with the wind tugging at his hair, beckoning him forward.
Dalten is a simple man, his body stocky and tall with a thick undercoat from the chilling winter upon them. The only originality being the light blue streaks of lightning that currently fade in and out along his fetlock, playing with his gift as if it is a stress reliever. Maybe it is.
To go in, to stand here, the choice was fifty/fifty down the middle yet here he is standing as if there were millions of factors that played in.
Mother being gone.
Father being gone.
Him being alone to carry on a now practically nameless title and them, not being here to witness the greatness he aspired to be.
The snow is crushed beneath his weight with one stride forward before he stops and allows a frosty breath to steam from his nostrils. He should wait here, wait for a greeter and permission to enter.
Light blue streaks of lighting sparks at his hooves as he waits.
reposted...
