His face is upturned and the pale lamplight glow of the moon trickles softly down the length of his back. The milky light tumbles down his slanting shoulders and casts a shadow from the crest of his roman nose. Skywalker walks slowly through the dark and as he does so the dew-laden grass ruffles the feathering of his hooves and leaves his slender legs slick with cold moisture. His ears swivel softly atop his haughtily held head, complacently, the stallion listens to the dark and the things that hide therein. Being used to nocturnal travels, he willingly lets the gloom encompass him: his heart beats steadily, his footfall is sure and slow and for a short while he is completely relaxed. Nevermind the queer sylvan lights that line this, for him, un-trodden path. Skywalker has learned that his affinity to the dark is a quaint thing; it has made him the anomaly, sadly, because the night is the only place that keeps his fairly young heart at peace. The moonlight silvers him, turning his black skin into a statue of quicksilver and as it hits his icy blue eyes he becomes a quiet wraith, stepping down another unknown path. Skywalker does not concern himself with how his coming unto them (because yes, he can smell horses on the wind – horses and some timeworn, strange magic) will be received. Either they will have him or they will not, and that is all that is the case. The stallion considers things but puts little value into that consideration, some would say that he has some difficulty with nuances – at times he is as blunt as his inelegant face.
Instead, he leaves himself to the thick, cloud-like dark, his mind completely quiet and something unearthly glittering in his eyes. Infinity, perhaps.
S K Y W A L K E R
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