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Donovan stood on an outcrop of the mountain, the stone beneath his hooves solid and holding his muscled form well. The wind made his short mane and disproportionate tail sway gently. Signs of his winter coat starting pushing through his dark fur, darkening it to almost disguise his crimson marked shoulder and rump fully. The statue warrior would welcome Frostfall with open arms, for with winter came new life. For now, however, he watched the earth die as Orangemoon crept into the territory.
Turning his body to the left, Donovan moved powerfully back towards the path. Already he was growing familiar with the territory, able to navigate the heart of it by memory. His hooves displayed that now as he descended the mountainside, coming to rest under the glorious display of the waterfall. Rolling his shoulders back and lowering his hips, the mason gently laid to the ground. Stretching out his neck he rubbed his cheek on the cool, dying grass before he proceeded to rub his side, flip is body over his withers and preform the action again.
Rolling to rest on his elbows, the aged warrior lowered his black muzzle to the earth. His lips and teeth snatched up morsels of the grass, less green and desirable now than when the Grey had invaded, but still delicious nonetheless. Sighing, the mason rested in the shadow of the crashing water. Donovan
Like the salt of the earthEach correction makes us stronger |
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