Become the General? (Stay a warrior) Challenge Levi? (Don't challenge Levi) Attend the herd meeting? (Guard the borders) Protect the herd? (Gather lost souls). Casual encounters (Long term responsibilities) Does she love me? (She loves you not).

You've got to know, that this is way too much for poor Gaucho to take in. He is far too simple to understand the complexities of love or to read between the lines, of what Soh could possibly expect - or, more simply, just want - from him. Too literal of a creature, he was finding it more and more difficult to distinguish his orders: Gaucho patrol, or Gaucho retrieve? Gaucho to herd meeting, or Gaucho in skies? He was a creature unable to prioritize on his own, and was painfully lost in this shuffle of darkness that had enveloped the land.

But that in itself, was also alright. With his simplemindedness, of course came frustration, but surely not the sort that you or I experience. Gaucho does not spend his afternoons sorting through what he should, or should not do - he simply acts. So while it is apparent there is frustration - a high-energy pent up snap in his strides - there is no inner turmoil or doubt, clouding his stormy gaze. In that, he is perhaps the luckiest of us all.

The large bay stallion lands in the middle of Thistle Meadow. There is lamp light cast by the odd trees which had sprung up when first Helovia went dark, but now the Moonlight from above seemed to bath the world in an ethereal shine. Had the moon always been this bright? Or had their eyes grown so accustomed to the darkness, that any light seemed to be supernaturally blazing? Of course these aren't things that Gaucho troubles himself with, as his large hooves slam into the freezing ground - dislodging the undisturbed snow. The snow has a hard frigid layer of ice over top - making it feel as though the dark skin covering his cannon bones is being sliced each time he drags his legs through. Thus, the large bay energetically seems to prance through the snow, as if pulling some imaginary sleigh on Christmas eve. Black wings are held tightly to his sides, retaining the warmth that his body is releasing - as he lets himself adjust to this temperature. In the Throat, the temperature never dips this low, nor is the sandy terrain ever dusted with this much snow. It is a terrain that he is unfamiliar in, though as he moves, he understands that snow gives about as much resistance as the sand of his homeland does - perhaps even slightly less, for it packs well underneath his hooves, giving him traction as he canters about.

It isn't long before this warmup is complete, and Gaucho grows tired of merely ruining the pristine white blanket upon the meadow. With a loud battle cry, Gaucho lifts himself onto his hind legs with the aid of his wings, comically tossing his antlered brow, as his strikingly white teeth snap at the frigid air. Exhaling, he watches as his breath lingers in the air, and, finding this amusing, continues to snort as he once again picks up a canter.

"NNNNNNNNNNNNNNN" He bellows again, coming to an abrupt halt and flinging snow about with his sudden movement. His stormy gaze is ablaze with amusement and want, to feel a body collide against his own - to feel teeth tearing into his flesh. To feel something he can understand, and to speak in the only language he is truly fluent in: battle language.

[WC: 608.
Attack: 0/3
Closing Defense: 0/1
M/C: 0/2

Setting: Thistle Meadow. Snowy. Nighttime.

@[Confutatis]