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04-04-2016, 11:49 AM
My spirit, for once, was high and well today, riding the winter winds cresting overhead, super chilled by the mammoth peaks which surround the side trails of my youth. Bouncy, the trot with which I travel is careless, the sort of jaunt one uses when they are busy going no where, and taking full delight in the scenery they pass, my tail falling behind me and etching a strange, rippling trail across the twin moon divots of my hooves. Despite the numerous fights I’ve managed to find since I’ve come home, to Helovia, my body keeps healing – sometimes with help, sometimes not - but until now, I don’t think I’ve ever once thought of how fortunate I am to have not been crippled by now. From Volterra’s hooves to Elsa’s outrage, I am one lucky son of a bitch. The thought makes a smile cross my face as I half slide, half bound down a slick hillock, my hind legs severing the powdery white, and revealing the yellowed grass below, shining in the high overhead sun; bitch is right, I almost laugh out loud, snorting with good humor as I pause at the base of the hill to look about me. As I’ve done a lot lately, I’ve let the whims of my heart take me where they will, and I begin to let it do so again, when something catches my eye… Crescent hoof prints cross the wilds. It means one of two things: it is a unicorn like my mother, carrying the semblance of an equine but for the crown they wear, walking patrols for the Basin, which is all well and good as far as I’m concerned (a strange defensiveness tightening about my heart for the land of my birth – I owe them nothing, but I’d fight their foes in this snow for them despite the fact that I no longer feel at home there, despite the bitterness I’ve placed upon the mountains, rather than the woman I’d mocked seconds ago). The second option is that it is an infiltrator. My golden eyes become hostile slits as I approach the divots in the snow, nostrils broadening to take in the smell of masculine musk, pine, and dirt from many trails, old by some matter of half a day. The eager smile that had laced my lips at the discovery of a challenge fades into a disgruntled frown at the thought of how very long and droll the venture to find this stranger will be. It would be an old trail, undisturbed for the most part, the clouds having only been chased away to reveal and endlessly blue heaven for the last hour or so, leaving behind only the cold wind that barely veiled the intense heat of the sun beating down against my dark figure, rather than the newly imprinted trail of some champion or another. Still, I suppose it is something to do, I think as I manage to get over the sweeping assault of frustration and disappointment that takes me, looking up to follow the stranger’s path into a nearby copse of pine, winding through the cleared beast trails, angling towards the hidden crevice in the peaks surrounding the Basin. I don’t pick back up my trot – instead, it’s a slow walk, like whoever left these, each of my cloven hooves pressing down dominantly and perfectly centered within the crescents his blunt tools had left behind. 0/3 | 572 [ You are welcome to set the precise scene where ever Mortuus finds him! The weather is delightfully clear and sunny with an average speed, cold wind. ] |
