The lacing of pride danced and wove its way through the colt’s chest at the antered stag’s exclamation – the Basin was beautiful, and though he’d played no part in its construction, the child could still feel warranted a little respect for the empire he rambled through. It could be cold, chilling, and frigid, but it also held the significant warbles of strength, of nobility, of regality, tough and enduring, no mountains crumbling, no summits sliding, naught but timeless, arcane perfection. Even the water, never truly under a winter’s spell, was marvelous in its concoction, and his eyes were always riveted to its placid reflecting pool, a looking glass spread and formidable, not deceitful, not specious; and some days, he could pretend to be lord of it, casting his hooves across its surface as mighty ruler of seas, waves, currents, and streams. The little beast watched and waited as Grim launched his bigger structure into the opulent wonder, turning and twisting into someone else entirely (it was funny to see such a massive creature suddenly contorting into a playful, jubilant creature; not many of the adults here would even think to carry on in the manners of foals). Inclined to join him, because what child wouldn’t want to be a merchant of diversions and amusement, the lad hastened his own series of joviality, waiting until the stag’s gaze was turned towards the shallow lakebed and the shuffling of stones and rubble; placing one limb on the surface, feeling it carry his weight, his lanky, developing legs, before presiding entirely upon its colossal wake. Poseidon’s long-lost descendent, he maneuvered silently, stealthily, while the newcomer splashed and cajoled in the cool liquid; the miniature heathen, with impish glee and fiendish charm, maneuvered like a serpent, slithering along his watery threshold, sinuous and serpentine. He didn’t splash, he didn’t plunge, he didn’t descend into the anarchy, into the swell, of the rippling tides caused and seared by Grim’s movements and antics, biding his time, pausing for a significant moment. Then, as the stallion turned to face him, drenched and soused, the colt ceased all motions, appearing calm, composed, and self-possessed, standing upon the lake’s finish and veneer as though he were lacquered to it himself, binding with the spirals and convolutions, the snippets of water and sea, gaze aglow, channeled and funneled into decadent splendor. He inclined his skull closer to the stag, twisting his smile into a feral smirk, a predator on the prowl, a wraith on the moor, pretending naught was out of the ordinary, noting the beloved stretch of water like he was gesturing towards the weather or the rate of summer humidity. “Do you like it?”

@[Grimalkin]