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Pitiful. This land is pitiful. It's nothing compared to the Deep Abyss, where all was so beautiful. I can still recall the rich scent of the simarillians, the flowers nestled and cloaking the walls of the Deep, golden pollen a constant shroud over the deep. I can remember the thrill of the hunt, sinuous curls of my body sweeping over the earth, chasing the glow-painted deer, the antlered horse leaping from my snapping teeth. I remember the dark, the deep deep black, constant even in the depths of the world where the heat is constant on my scales from the core of the earth emanating through the rock itself. I slow, tongue flicking, tasting the chilled air. I don't like snow. No, I don't like it all. That does not mean I am weak in snow- in fact, I cannot feel cold or heat the way silly horses do. Horses. I joined a herd of horses. A predator amongst his prey.
Pathetic.
Jagged, hard-edged black scales begin their movement, swaying over the earth, slipping between the trees at ease. I have complete and utter control of my lengthy body, but as for my hunger for scrumptious horse meat, I do miss, even though I have sworn not to eat any horse. Perhaps if someone injured comes along I can have a quick snack... and the Throat wouldn't know. Would they? No. Certainly not. The rasp of snow giving way is the only sound on the moonlit filled night. I can scent horse, but horses are all over this thrice-damned Helovia.
I'm homesick. Weakness, I tell myself, yet I long for the Deep Abyss. I long to speak my old tongue, instead of this language of Horse, cut and chopped up into fine little pieces, with each vowel distinct and crisp, not smooth and flowing as it should be.
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