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10-12-2012, 12:45 AM
Heat wrapped around the buckskin steed, as comforting as a blanket, though he does not think of it in this way. He presses forward at a steady trot, ignoring the discomfort this causes to his cheek and mouth. From afar he looks normal, a simple gold and shadow unicorn. Those who come closer, however, will see the source of his pain. The ebon horn that he bears has grown wrong, curving down on the left side over his eye, piercing through the flesh of his cheek and coming out through his mouth, the tip hanging from between his lips like a fang. The white scarring that surrounds the place where the horn has grown into his face adds to the stag’s grotesque appearance. Lynx is well aware of how he looks, and wonders if he truly wishes to meet with another being. For that is why he is here, jogging across the hot sand in search of the one who rules this land. He has found the warmth of the desert soothes his wounded flesh, and seeks to gain permission to stay.
His pace slows as he nears a small oasis, little more than a puddle really, and the stallion lowers his head to the hot, brackish water. A grimace crosses his face as the old injury twinges, and he can taste the familiar tang of blood. Eating is even more difficult, as shown by his thin frame. It is yet another reason Lynx normally chose to remain solitary, to avoid the looks of pity he knew he would receive from those who could look past his deformity.
A few mouthfuls later he looks up, scenting the air for another’s presence. There is nothing. He snorts, impatient, and resumes his trot. Eventually he will find someone of importance, or they will find him. He knows that this desert is home to a lake, odd as that is, and if he can find it then he will find others, hopefully the one he seeks. The faintest breeze brings the far off smell of grass to him, and he veers towards it. Soon he will have his answer.
His pace slows as he nears a small oasis, little more than a puddle really, and the stallion lowers his head to the hot, brackish water. A grimace crosses his face as the old injury twinges, and he can taste the familiar tang of blood. Eating is even more difficult, as shown by his thin frame. It is yet another reason Lynx normally chose to remain solitary, to avoid the looks of pity he knew he would receive from those who could look past his deformity.
A few mouthfuls later he looks up, scenting the air for another’s presence. There is nothing. He snorts, impatient, and resumes his trot. Eventually he will find someone of importance, or they will find him. He knows that this desert is home to a lake, odd as that is, and if he can find it then he will find others, hopefully the one he seeks. The faintest breeze brings the far off smell of grass to him, and he veers towards it. Soon he will have his answer.
