He remembers this place, faintly. He had come here many times nestled in the safety of a younger, larger, able-bodied shadow. He comes here now, able in his own right, powerful as he ploughs through the snowdrifts and the curtains of falling flakes that lace broad grey shoulders and a shadowy, tangled mess of a mane that curls and ropes down his neck. He is old enough to decide upon the cold; he finds it distasteful, and his innards echo with an errant hiss.

But he is here, regardless, and Ka’Mate is mindless to his master’s displeasure with the elements; he soars through the snow, contemplating it briefly, his stomach hot and full of an owlet he had caught unawares in the shadows of a tree. Ka’Ora purches upon her master’s hips, wings shrouded against the fury of the wind; she is patient against the cold, her mind snapping to attention as she feels her master’s interest piqued.

Beat it, he commands. In a flurry of heavy grey wings, Ka’Ora disappears from her master’s company. She is now nothing; lost to the wind and the gentle, happy blizzard. She is swallowed by the winter. Reginald does not watch her go.

Eyes of grey rest instead on a rather interesting sight, for his interest for the female creature becomes a vice he easily slides into no matter the occasion. His eyes scan the way a tight, toned body fights the pull of the snowdrifts with a high, spirited gait. She would blend easily into the dull grey of the landscape, where it not for the sable legs that sprang in turn from the piles of silvery white with every step. He needs very little prodding for pursuit; a body caught by the grips of a cold always begs for warmth, and he is pleased by her form, besides. The blue eyes are framed well on her visage; she is built well; her color is not idiotic, erratic, inbred. She will be a nice one.

He shakes some of the snow from his mane as he trudges through the snow; she must fight it, yet it is no match for his awesome weight, the perfection of a grand obelisk as he. His grey eyes flash from the shadows of his brow; his smile is easy (he has been practicing). He approaches with an arch to his neck he knows showcases something a mare might like to see, and the look he cuts her is quick.“You can ease up, now,” comes the oiled, polished, dashing rumble; a serpent’s purr, “I’ve already noticed you.”

”Watch for Circe.”