"

Evening be a curious time indeed. The day is done, and many rest their weary heads. Dew collects like magic on the tip of a blade of grass. Silence falls deeply in these realms, noises set like the sun. In the deep forest of the Threshold stillness be the only keeper. She takes over from those who have passed the day before, weary from travels, only to find a place in this world to call their own. No animals travel here much by night, not many desire it, not many seek them. Night is not a time for new beginnings, but perhaps can it can embrace one more weary traveler for the evenings stay.

At first he looks to fly by no power, but the moon and stars are out on this night and their glow glistens on the black rich wings. They spread out and rustle with a great expanse. He is silent traveler in the mists of night. A dark bay he be, with rich undertones, but tassels and legs as dark as his wings. The only marking he bears is two interlocking swirls twisting on the plane of his head, partly hidden by long locks. He is build with some thickness, but not much. The neck has an elegant curve and chest is deep. Some feathers rustle on his running hooves, but not many, his legs being too thin to be draft. A hearty fellow he looks to be, but with mildness in him so as not to be of too thick of draft blood.

In the night sky he races with a feather dance, but yea, what be this? A trip in his flight, he drops a bit in the air. It becomes clear he fades. Nares flame in desire for air, and legs trip and can not pick themselves up. His wings have kept him steady but weariness pulls at their muscles as well. The rich dark earthen eyes with a glint of gold having guided him so far fail him. Lids close, legs fail to lift, and wings hesitate. He drops quickly. Down. Down. Down. But yea, the rush revives his senses. He startles awake and regains his paces. A worried look passes his face; he knows no longer can he keep up his flight. Though he knows not where he is flying over, he dives into the deep forest.

The thick branches do not want him to enter, but his exhaustion takes no prisoners. At last the forest floor is seen. Weary legs reach out to greet it. He stumbles as he lands, but he has grace with his wings which balance him as if a friend to catch him. He shakes a weary head and collects his wings close to his sides. They tuck next to his barrel, the long feathers fluttering. Harks tip and twitch to listen for a sound. Weary as he is, the mind can not help be wonder, what strange new land be this?








Talk