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When the Moon Goddess had given her magical gifts away, this fellow had been one of the recipients.
Not that I’d bothered to stalk him, or anything like that. We’ve just ironically arrived at one of my favorite locations simultaneously, the peculiar structure as proudly peaceful beneath the blanket of new snow as it has always been, except, this time, there is a weird looking guy coming to a halt within its pillared confines. Feeling Duir’s shrouding magic peel away from me in a shimmering ripple, I continue onward into the perimeter of the standing trees, while my companion lingers behind, remaining hidden from the stranger (as he is prone to do).
The normally metallic ring of my hooves against the steps is muffled by the crisp giving of snow beneath them, my figure rather fearlessly approaching the strange stallion with steps that are light and graceful as his had seemed to be. Pausing on the steps, I cast my golden gaze towards whom I believe, by this characteristic of his cautious step alone, is like I am.
A sneak, a rogue; an aimless vagabond intent on nothing but the whims of his soul, and one who was selected by the Moon Goddess herself as being worthy. What better reasons are there to try and strike up a conversation with someone? Even if I am wrong about the nature of his spirit, he does at least have the Mistress Moon’s favor, and undeniable truth I witnessed.
"Salutations, stranger," I say no sooner than I am partially settled with several steps remaining to the plateau of the structure, "I am Rikyn, of no where. I’ll join you, if you don’t mind."
And so I do, before he can agree, or disagree. He can just leave if he doesn’t want to be in my company that badly. I’ve likely haunted this location longer than he has, anyway. I have the prerogative to stand here if I damn well please.
Settling in alongside him at a comfortable distance, I listen to the trickle of the partially frozen creek through the lacing ice. Silence otherwise fills the air, the usual song of birds and rustle of creatures through brush and over branch absent, the season having lulled them to sleep, or drawn them to warmer realms. It’s intoxicating, the silence of winter, my favorite season of the year, when all was chilled and hushed as death, or a man in careful thought. Even my body loves the season, adapted for the cold, my coffee coat thick, so thick that my ankles and chin have grown curls of dark hair like those of my uncle and sire. The snow has clung to this extra hair on my ankles, which I carefully tap off of each hoof in turn, as soon as I’ve found myself comfortable.
"I’m glad there’s snow again, and not cold rain," I grin, my breath a white curl of steam in the crisp air, remembering the last time I’d been here, with contemptible Erthë (my ass and shoulder still hurt from the strike of her peculiar arrows, though the wounds have externally mended), "the cold is not so bad if you’re not drenched."
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