11-01-2019, 10:13 PM
The sound of ocean waves reminds him of a distant, unconscious memory. The hush of the waves against the sand and rock calls him to a safe place - before his mother had evicted him from her body. A place where he could hear her heartbeat and feel the vibration of her voice as she spoke. He hadn’t left that place so long ago. But, the sea salt water lulls his eyes to close and remember, and he smiles that smile that is always too wide.
He is young still, his legs long and gangly, his hair at an odd length, and the richness of his bay dun hide unfaded with the grey that will surely come. He is a child, nearly a year old, just brash enough to wander from his mother’s side to find trouble or the sea.
He has seen so many things in the short time he has been alive. He knows that this world is bigger than Tephra, bigger than any of them, and yet he looks to his grandfather as if he owns it all. He knows he has some semblance of family in Taiga, but since their visit there when he was still wobbly on his legs, his mother had never spoken of it, and Dacre never asked. Too young to understand the tears, the hurt, and the hate.
He doesn’t need to understand. Not now. Hate will come in time.
He likes it here on the edge of the territory where the ocean takes the sand from beneath his hooves and casts it out into the depths. He needs the water like he needed his mother’s milk (before those needle teeth grew and she taught him the taste of the hunt instead). He usually has the beach to himself and the wind, and he revels in solitude - the feeling of freedom. He has yet to learn that loneliness is a trap that everyone falls into at sometime or another.
His gold flecked eyes open lazily at last. His belly rumbles with hunger, so he decides the wander the shore in search of anything that may have become stranded on the beach (easy pickings).
He has a starfish hanging from his teeth when he notices the spotted mare laying in the sand. Perhaps he would have seen her sooner if his nose hadn’t been searching the sand for morsels. Rather awkwardly, he slurps the insides of the pink, five legged critter and then his needle teeth make short work of the husk that remains. Gingerly he licks his needle teeth in an effort to clean himself up a bit as he approaches the prone figure.
“Hello.” he says - his voice not unlike that of the ocean - calm, but powerful despite his youth. “Are you alright?” he asks.
@[Breckin]
He is young still, his legs long and gangly, his hair at an odd length, and the richness of his bay dun hide unfaded with the grey that will surely come. He is a child, nearly a year old, just brash enough to wander from his mother’s side to find trouble or the sea.
He has seen so many things in the short time he has been alive. He knows that this world is bigger than Tephra, bigger than any of them, and yet he looks to his grandfather as if he owns it all. He knows he has some semblance of family in Taiga, but since their visit there when he was still wobbly on his legs, his mother had never spoken of it, and Dacre never asked. Too young to understand the tears, the hurt, and the hate.
He doesn’t need to understand. Not now. Hate will come in time.
He likes it here on the edge of the territory where the ocean takes the sand from beneath his hooves and casts it out into the depths. He needs the water like he needed his mother’s milk (before those needle teeth grew and she taught him the taste of the hunt instead). He usually has the beach to himself and the wind, and he revels in solitude - the feeling of freedom. He has yet to learn that loneliness is a trap that everyone falls into at sometime or another.
His gold flecked eyes open lazily at last. His belly rumbles with hunger, so he decides the wander the shore in search of anything that may have become stranded on the beach (easy pickings).
He has a starfish hanging from his teeth when he notices the spotted mare laying in the sand. Perhaps he would have seen her sooner if his nose hadn’t been searching the sand for morsels. Rather awkwardly, he slurps the insides of the pink, five legged critter and then his needle teeth make short work of the husk that remains. Gingerly he licks his needle teeth in an effort to clean himself up a bit as he approaches the prone figure.
“Hello.” he says - his voice not unlike that of the ocean - calm, but powerful despite his youth. “Are you alright?” he asks.
@[Breckin]