A hot wave of air rolls in from the south and curls out the golden’s mane. He leans into it, like a purring cat. The heat feeling out each restless notion, each pricked nerve, and soothing it back down. God it felt good. The effects were doubled perhaps because of the place from which he came. The Basin, with its towering snowcapped mountains, and barely kept away cold chilly breezes hardly felt like true summer. Spring perhaps, but this year it was doubtful it would reach summer levels. That though was not the only reason he had left. More and more the mountains seemed to be leaning inward, and the Arch, the gateway out, seeming smaller. It was suffocating. What had once been a treasured hide-away was now not but a prison cell.

So he was out. Well for a while. When the warm air of the south hit his still healing lungs he couldn’t help but surge forward. His mind, a virtual tar pit in the walls of the mountains, spun up and began sparking with energy. Haldir, who was very surprised by the strange mood, was not immune and he too leaps forward as they descend. Nothing was said between them for a while, nothing needed to be. It was a feeling they could both understand. Physical wounds were finally healing, and the mental ones were left behind the stone and ice walls. They travelled south without much concern for where they were going or why.

They had gazed along the Thistle Meadow, enjoying the sun of summer, but even then they could see the mountains. It was not far enough. So they moved on further south till they came to the Flats late in the afternoon. The sun was getting low, and the shimmering surface of the place became otherworldly as it reflected the changing sky. When he had come here before the gold had still been ill, and little, other than the rough sand of the ground, was remembered. But now. Now he was a spit fire again. The energy, snapping, crackling, and popping from release of the day soars to a high. It escapes his lips in a bellow of command, and the gold, leaning back on his hinds, takes off across the plain.

Thin salt waters crash up against his coat, but the golden afternoon, and the golden son merge into one. His heart raced, and lungs clawed for air but good gods it felt so freeing. To release, to spend the energy, to feel the power in his muscles again. As he races across the salt flats, with Haldir charging by his side, it seems like he is charging forward into the battle that has already come and gone. But perhaps the run, this full speeded flight was not a charge at all…could it perhaps be a retreat? Why had his mountain hide-away become such a looming darknes? He held the crown did he not? The power was his to wield, and no one stood above him. Yet, he was here, racing away, trying not to think of it. Trying not to think of sleepless nights of pacing, of shadows which trailed him, nor of what ‘needed doing’. Whatever lighted his hooves to carry him away from the snow to the sands, though it went unnamed by him, was a powerful notion, growing in strength.

Powerful churning legs began to slow as the golden’s body finally could not keep up with his spirit. He pulls up somewhere in the middle of the Flats, his breath still clawing and gasping. Man it was out of shape. The tides of war, and the sicknesses had stolen from him chances to keep up his usual runs. The Laurelin was still in his prime though. The veins raced under his coat, sweat lathered it into a deep gold, and every muscle felt the pull and power of being spent. His crowned head shakes, salt water, flying from his mane. Haldir, the poor deer, finally catches up. His face is bright though with endorphins, and the finally lighter mood of the gold. The long tense nights he had watched his bonded were washed away in the contagious energy sparking between them.

Snorting the gold at last seriously looks about himself. The sun had sank lower, and sunset was not far off. Already the colors of the sky were bending into golds, and oranges. Nerves still tingle and zip with energy. So far from the cold north everything seemed awake, and alive. Especially awakened, was the need for a bit of fun. How long had it been since his gold flecked eyes had sought a bit of mischief? How long had it been since the gold ripped off that collar. Too long. Tasseled tail switches at his fetlocks, thinking, planning, while he walked and looked about the Flats for anything worth a look. What a better way to end the day than with a bit of fun? 




OOC :: Thranduil is feeling his oats! Open to any and all! Summary for those of who need, he's basically just had a run and is lookin for a bit of mischief!
I'm an idiot and forgot to put this in, he's wearing his circlet and satchel, in it his golden cloak, knife, polearm, and various small trinkets.
"Speech"