Monsters or no monsters, death or plague or hell come to claim the world, he wouldn't stay in those caves longer than was absolutely necessary. He didn't care for the damp, the echoes, the stifling heat and odor of hundreds of horses crammed into a small space for far too long, no more than he cared for the endless tunnels that crept deep into the bowels of the earth, chasms and unknown chambers holding things foul and sinister only waiting to erupt upon them all. A child of the northern tundra was not fit to lurk under ground but to roam the expanse with fire in the heart and ice on his back.

Better then to face the fierce chill of midwinter winds as fine particles of frosty downpour stabbed the skin like needles. He faced the blizzard gladly and meandered northward while counting the steps to make sure he would find the way back to the hidden sanctuary. It was with a sense of elation he braved the storm, a wild, dark, dangerous mirth as ragged and fierce as the silk that flew like tatters from the crest, mimicking murders of crows blown by frigid gusts. Icicles had already formed in the thick rag beneath chin and belly, coated the triplet spears and painted that gruesome death mask over his face even paler than before.

Yet he wasn't cold. Not more than usual, body and soul, closed off as he was from the present by iron shackles known as memory and time.

A shadow of a smile upon supple lips brave the bleak winter light as he stop to graze, massive hooves shoveling away the deep snow to reach dry grasses below. It is heavy work, slow and tedious, yet it allow the mind to wander - something the shaded youth desperately need. Much has happened in short time - too much, perhaps, to fully consider in such a brief period of time - and there is a need for pause and consideration to look over decisions made and choices taken.

Almost thoughtfully he begin to eat, jaws working steadily to crush rough strands and tough herbs. It's a rhythm, a dance, a meticulous waltz; rip, grind, swallow, shuffle and repeat. And all the while the wind keeps howling as snow cover his tracks, blanketing sturdy shoulders and flanks and turning him truly into a dark ghost, descended upon the meadow for purposes unknown.


@[Morana]