From above, Helovian winter is truly beautiful.

The colt glides along high above the massive white expanse of the Frostbreathe Steppe, feeling the powerful push of the air beneath his feathered wings. A gentle wind laps beneath him and carries him along, requiring the minimal amount of effort on his part. It's peaceful and delightful, the only way to see Helovia in Arakh's opinion. Since he learned how to fly properly, it's been almost impossible to get him out of the sky. A moment spent on the ground is a moment wasted for the bull-horned boy, and there's hardly a corner of the land that he hasn't seen from his position on high.

The calf is growing rather well, already showing the strapping build of his father. Fledgling muscles ripple beneath the grullo coat, and the region where his wings join his body is thick to the touch, toned with hours of flying and practicing. His voice is deep and gruff beyond his years, and he's quite tall for his age too; already he can almost look his mother in the eye. Arakh is not vain by nature, but he does spend rather a lot of hours admiring his appearance in any reflective surfaces he can find to determine whether he's growing and bulking out as he wants to. Thankfully, he is.

Despite his many hours of flying practice, the grullo still lacks in stamina when he's in the air, and needs to land fairly often to replenish his energy. As he feels his gentle wingbeats becoming laboured, he slowly angles himself downwards towards the snow-covered expanse below. He tilts his wings and allows gravity to do its work, gliding him softly towards what he hopes will be an elegant and refined landing. Unfortunately, he does not account for the fact that there's a slight wind lower down compared to the calm higher up; suddenly he feels his body being snatched by the surprise breeze, his folded wings tugged outwards again and his entire form propelled ominously forwards.

He bellows his indignation, but there's not a lot he can do as the errant gust sends him ploughing headfirst into a large snowdrift. His bull horns carve easily through the snow until he's buried up to his hindquarters in it, granting any passersby the comical sight of a colt's back end stuck out from a giant pile of snow. Bleating obnoxiously and thrashing his wings and limbs like a bear caught in a trap, Arakh finally manages to disentangle himself and falls unceremoniously to the ground, feeling his temper beginning to rise as blood pounds in his ears and his flesh begins to quiver. "Yer govak!" he roars at the snowdrift, turning around and kicking the ever-living shit out of it with his back legs until it's nothing but a crushed pile of snow.