.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
03-27-2016, 10:54 AM
|
The ground groaned and broke beneath slate hooves, brittle fragments of stones and the crunch of branches echoing through the snow covered forest as the beast moved forward. The bones which littered his necklace jingled and clanked with the momentum, creating a harrowing song to those close enough to hear it. Crimson hued eyes observing the landscape before him in interest, watching for anything or anyone that may stumble into his path. He had travelled far from his primitive home, having lost sight of his brother along the way and too stubborn, too proud and too curious to double back and find him. Tormo would be fine, he was a warrior and he need not worry for the larger brute's safety. Worry was not an emotion the behemoth was intimate with, it tasted bitter on his tongue and soured his mind. His shaggy fur kept the cold at bay, insulating him from the steely nips and bites of frost and snow, though unable to do anything to stop the blanket and freckling of white that chosen to land on his ruddy and cream hide. New sounds and smells filled his nostrils and assaulted his eyes, everything was different, new, unusual. Wrong. This land was wrong, it never crossed the brute's mind that he might've have been what was wrong in this place. Lips pull back over protruding canines to reveal the predatory teeth within his maw as he reared, over feathered hooves slamming into a young tree to send it keeling over, forcing the earth to make room for him so he could fit through the dense growth to reach the frozen creek he spied beyond the row of dusted green. He muscled his way through with some effort, the much larger oaks refusing to yield to this timelost beast. Ganbataar managed in the end, his frame finally shoving it's way free and into the opening. Opening was a choice word, at least for him, for it may have been a comfortable clearing for those of smaller bodies and smaller girth as he. He only stopped in his path toward the frozen water to shake his great body, in a futile attempt to scatter the bark and debris which had caught and tangled itself into the carpet of hair which coated his body. Leonine tail flicked then, haphazardly trying to finish the job to little result. Not that he particularly cared for his overall appearance, the warpaint and long braid that was his forelock were the most important. A symbol of his prowess, his mark as a successful warrior. Finally, he closed the small distance to what he had been seeking all along, sinking a great hoof through the ice so he may greedily drink the refreshing and cold waters beneath the glassy sheets. A satisfied growl rolling from his primitive vocals, glad to finally have something to drink after the long trek through the never ending forest. "talk talk talk" |
open to all, though I'm leaning between either the falls or the basin for this big floof.
