Our skin gets thicker, living out in the snow
CREVAN
His eyes are sharp, but they can't see through trunks and dark tree limbs. Crevan has made himself at home in Taiga but often wonders what’s become of the red-gold forest he used to champion. Does the burrow he made his home remain? Would it smell like Merida still, after all this time? He weaves randomly past roots and over the pine needles underfoot, thinking melancholy thoughts until he resolves to just put them to rest. The off-white curve of his broad wolf’s chest rises and falls with a deep sigh; the next breath he takes is one through rounded lips and blunt teeth - his shifts are becoming smoother and less troublesome.
As a horse he feels focused, less distracted by the overwhelming sounds and smells that always kept him on edge. He moves southwest with a distinct purpose now, cantering heavily on refined legs that are a few shades darker than the rest of him, breathing through nostrils that cannot smell as well as his other nose but give him great bursts of air he sucks down into his lungs. This body may not resemble his other, but its characteristics are still the same: baroque, thick-barreled with an overarched neck and intricately shaped head.
The only thing that marks him as unusual is the navy color of his mane and tail, yet both compliment the dark mocha of his skin when they trail over his shoulders and hind legs.
He is not unattractive, not ferocious... he takes after his father in this form, and his father was one who had two devoted wives in a world where that seemed nearly impossible.
Breaching the outer boundaries of the autumn woods, Crevan slows to a rough trot and throws his head aside to flip his wet mane. He’s not particularly looking for anything, but he’s exhausted and the day is coming to an end. His trot shortens to a loud, extended walk and he relaxes enough to make sense of where he’s at. Up ahead there’ll be a pale formation of boulders, and after that (if he continues to travel farther south) there will be a breach in the woods and a small pond will reveal itself. He knows these paths and these woods, just like he knows the shadows of his own thoughts.
“Hmm?” He stops suddenly, seeing Valdis and assuming she’s crossed ahead. They might’ve seen each other at the same time, or she probably saw him before this moment, Crevan couldn’t be sure. “Sabrina?” He questions, because the stallion is ignorant of his packmates horse-shape. Valdis could be her or not. He’d find out soon enough.
@[Valdis]