Th wind was cold. It combed through his thin summer coat with icy fingers, whipping and licking the long limbs as if undecided whether it wished to caress or punish him. He swayed in pace with it, rocking slowly from foot to cloven foot as he listen, intently trying to pick up the words of the young ones... Alas. What he hears are no childish tales of adventure or punishment, no puppy-eyed confessions of love or pain or broken rules. Instead he find the voice of a young lamb being blown his way, speaking words that could only be directed to him; unless by some fluke of nature or divine prank there were more than one stallion around with a dead animal balanced on his face.

He heaved an enormous sigh, such that the deep chest swelled visibly before deflating; a plume of hot breath rose into the air and was immediately rent asunder, stolen away by the northern gales. What now? They had spotted him, the game was up. Did he really want to spend his time in the company of children? Morir wasn't very old himself, truth be told, but perhaps that was the very reason for his reluctance as he - still undecided - padded closer, so that he slowly began to tower up over the little ones with the likeness of a mountain leaning in over the rocks of the valley below. Wasn't it always so, that the young adults found less patience and pleasure with foals than the elderly? They still hovered so very close to childhood after all, still longed to escape the weakness and the frustration of never knowing, never belonging, never being taken seriously...

Or maybe it was just him.

"I found it" the dark voice rumbled, sounding distant and disinterested. Nares quivered gently as he breathed in the scents of those present, frowning as he picked up one that was distinctly different from the other equids. "What's it to you?" he added, suddenly suspicious; and as he did the head rose high into the air, so that massive spears looked about ready to slice open the gut of the sky itself. The hellion didn't usually take pleasure in harming those who were younger than himself (unless they were cocky, smart-mouthed little ingrates) but he wasn't so scrupulous that he would hesitate to attack should anyone try to take what was his. The skull mask wasn't much, but he liked it; it was slowly becoming like a part of himself, as much his own as the thrashing tail, the stomping hooves or the crimson blood in his veins.

The brute payed no heed to the girl, she hadn't spoken to him and thus he was not required to react to her. He hoped it would stay that way; mares were always a bother, regardless of their age.