.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
02-08-2016, 05:12 PM
Steam rises off the waters surface in billowing clouds that twist and clump together before they break apart and slowly dissipate in the chill breeze of early Frostfall. A smattering of dry snowflakes comes in with the cold air, battling the heat of the springs and losing, for now. Albrecht’s ears pin at the pale, colorless sky and the little flecks of ice it spits down at him with slowly increasing frequency. Already the winter is beginning its assault, dulling the browns and greens of the Basins interior with a dusting of white. He hovers at the waters edge for a time, watching helplessly as the drifts pile up.
Then he begins to pace, uncomfortable in his surroundings and unable to change them. The nervous, repetitive movement and close proximity to a natural heat source should shield him from the newly fledged winter, but the shiver that bolts through his frame, wracking him nearly off his feet is born of memory more than sensation. A wild snort flutters through his nostrils, like a timid colt shying at shadows.
He knows the water would warm him, envelope him, protect him from the cold and the even colder memories, but he can’t stay in the spring forever and once he leaves the heat will drain away and the droplets of water will freeze to his coat. Icicles in his beard, on his horns, stuck to his whiskers even – that’s a hell he won’t endure. Instead he keeps his frantic rhythm of restless fretting, shaking his neck to coax the folds of soft wool from around his shoulders until they spread flat, covering him from withers to ears. If little Johnny could only hear the blessings running through his fraying mind the young Weaver would probably die of ecstasy – or maybe laughter, to see the old man huddled in his scarf like a little Russian granny, pacing the rim of the thermal spring.
//
OOC: Halp. :(
Then he begins to pace, uncomfortable in his surroundings and unable to change them. The nervous, repetitive movement and close proximity to a natural heat source should shield him from the newly fledged winter, but the shiver that bolts through his frame, wracking him nearly off his feet is born of memory more than sensation. A wild snort flutters through his nostrils, like a timid colt shying at shadows.
He knows the water would warm him, envelope him, protect him from the cold and the even colder memories, but he can’t stay in the spring forever and once he leaves the heat will drain away and the droplets of water will freeze to his coat. Icicles in his beard, on his horns, stuck to his whiskers even – that’s a hell he won’t endure. Instead he keeps his frantic rhythm of restless fretting, shaking his neck to coax the folds of soft wool from around his shoulders until they spread flat, covering him from withers to ears. If little Johnny could only hear the blessings running through his fraying mind the young Weaver would probably die of ecstasy – or maybe laughter, to see the old man huddled in his scarf like a little Russian granny, pacing the rim of the thermal spring.
//
OOC: Halp. :(
![[Image: 56c616e54affc]](http://images.helovia.net/index.php/view/56c616e54affc)
