He stands out like a sore thumb in the pale landscape, black against white and so tall that even with the head lowered he towered against the flat horizon. Of course the stag doesn't know this. He has never been good at hiding because he find it hard to know when he is visible and not; growing up on moors like these hasn't helped either, where there were nothing but wave after roiling wave of swaying hill for miles on end and anyone that stood taller than a fox could be seen - as long as you possessed eyes. His father had tried to teach him how to move without being noticed, though the only skill he had picked up was how to move quietly; this was difficult too, especially in forests where fallen twigs and dry leaves made him sound like an elephant in a glass store.

But here... Out in the open with the wind whipping his banners like tattered rags, where the bite of nightly frost lingered long into morning and the loon let out its lonely, melancholy cries so reminiscent of terrified screams he felt at home. Here there was very little to get in his way, and so the eye-less stallion could pick up the pace, stretch out his legs and even dare a run without risking to fall over an edge or slam into a tree. It was a true pleasure to hear the rhythmic drum of his own feet, to feel the pulse of his heart beat steadily as muscles expanded and contracted, bringing him ever onward with no goal, no rush and no purpose but the sheer pleasure of it.

When he eventually tired of running, the looming heathen slowed down, pleasantly tired and steaming slightly in the cold Orangemoon air. Bowing down to rip off a few mouthfuls of grass he kept moving about, clipping the ears hither and thither to navigate and search for nothing in particular... and imagine the curiosity he feels upon hearing the sound of a little filly call out not too far away, offering her name like a glittering treasure handed out for free. Intrigued, the ominous looking stallion slow down and turn the masked head towards her, not quiet walking over but slowly, ever so carefully inching closer; eavesdropping wasn't a very nice hobby, but it was oh, so fun. Depending on the conversation, of course; he didn't have too many hopes for one carried out by children.