There's a horse when I land. I close my wings, black lining silver. Dark eyes, indeed an abyss, sparkle with an intense, playful, bordering psychotic light. He is a plain horse, but one I immediately take to with my good mood. Alongside this, he immediately expresses concern for me. I do appreciate that small consolation to adrenaline-stoked body.
"I'm alright. Nothing like a good fly through a storm to get your spirits up. Svetlana, by the way." I savor my name on my tongue, wild pride tossing inside. One day, everyone will know my name. Black wings rustle again as I take a couple more steps closer to the stallion. Although his coat is darkened by snow, four white socks remain prominent, and his tail is thin and worn. The flavor of Foothills hang around him, with a soft inhale, I can scent all the individual fibers to the welcoming smell. A strand of nervousness, maybe.
I shake my head, taking a step back. Unlike my herdland, running forward to greet or spar is strangers is condoned here. Simply unheard of, I think. Plus, the dark eyes, which in my home are the eyes of night, a revered sign, is normally a push-off to strangers. With one obsidian hoof, I crush a piece of ice. I am in a very good mood. I've always been rather the extremist- I have two gears. Overload and underload. Snow kisses the ground, layering the world in a soft white sheen. It is glorious, magnificent, so beautiful in this landscape. How I want to lead it, to be followed, to be respected. But I would not take it with a strong hand, however- I would prefer to be chosen, thrown into glory.
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