Winter is here;

[Chemdog]

Old he is, but only in mind. His body, depending on his general mental and physical health, is almost always somewhere between 9 and 18 years old – hardly ever taking on the appearance of an old man, although it’s been known to happen in his bouts of depression. His markings are sharp white against the eely shine of his very black basecoat. No signs of graying for some years now, but with his recent life choices he is a little thinner than normal, which looks awkward on his normally pretty bulky frame. Hopefully that is about to change… he’s always meant to be a little fluffy or he looks like he’s made of spare parts. When he’s too skinny his head, chest, and barrel don’t quite match his legs and butt. He wouldn’t know much about his own looks if it weren’t for the taunting reflections on the surface of still waters, reminding him he was starving himself for a little bit of adventure.

Thoughts of starving quickly fade as he gorges unabashedly. At some point there is another voice, and among a small pile of burly dudes, this little winged roan find herself greeting them. She isn’t nasty or unwelcoming, quite the contrary, and this, along with her general attractiveness, draws him away from his feast and to Leilan’s side (a polite distance, no neck breathing). He’s in no position to jut in, but he listens, tipping on ear to Leilan and the other to Noah, as she introduces herself and her home.

He isn’t shy about staring, but he doesn’t do his usual look over as one would its prey. He keeps his focus to her face, reading the tones of her voice, reading Leilan’s too. The group isn’t so rag tag when their heads are up, eyes forward, standing somewhat close – by the hour they look more and more like the guerilla group they’re set out to be.

CHEMDOG
to the window, to the wall

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