Steam rises off the waters surface in billowing clouds that twist and clump together before they break apart and slowly dissipate in the chill breeze of early Frostfall. A smattering of dry snowflakes comes in with the cold air, battling the heat of the springs and losing, for now. Albrecht’s ears pin at the pale, colorless sky and the little flecks of ice it spits down at him with slowly increasing frequency. Already the winter is beginning its assault, dulling the browns and greens of the Basins interior with a dusting of white. He hovers at the waters edge for a time, watching helplessly as the drifts pile up.

Then he begins to pace, uncomfortable in his surroundings and unable to change them. The nervous, repetitive movement and close proximity to a natural heat source should shield him from the newly fledged winter, but the shiver that bolts through his frame, wracking him nearly off his feet is born of memory more than sensation. A wild snort flutters through his nostrils, like a timid colt shying at shadows.

He knows the water would warm him, envelope him, protect him from the cold and the even colder memories, but he can’t stay in the spring forever and once he leaves the heat will drain away and the droplets of water will freeze to his coat. Icicles in his beard, on his horns, stuck to his whiskers even – that’s a hell he won’t endure. Instead he keeps his frantic rhythm of restless fretting, shaking his neck to coax the folds of soft wool from around his shoulders until they spread flat, covering him from withers to ears. If little Johnny could only hear the blessings running through his fraying mind the young Weaver would probably die of ecstasy – or maybe laughter, to see the old man huddled in his scarf like a little Russian granny, pacing the rim of the thermal spring.


//

OOC: Halp. :(

if you love me, don’t let go —

Anger kindles first, bursting into life between the spark of an unwelcome question and the brittle tinder of his wild eyed fear and agitation. He swings around to face the voice, already drawing in a breath to hurl abuse of every theme, but the bright blue eyes he finds staring back at him are calm and familiar – the Pyromaniac from before, the one who birthed the red and gold colt now known to be Ashamin’s. Lucky bastard.

He’d watched the boy take his first wobbling, drunken steps; watched him nose at his mother’s cream colored flanks for the very first time. The thought of those little golden ears, still wet and half-folded from the womb, bleeds his rampage nearly dry. He grinds his teeth on unspoken slander, eyes tracing the loops of golden chain across her brow and back as the flames of anger inside him dim to anxious irritation.

“I’m not very good company.” He growls, bowing his neck to peek around her knees and hocks. “Least of all for- oh.” Where is the boy now? He wonders. Surely he’s too young to be away from the safety of mother’s teeth and teat already, but then again who is he to criticize? He's the antonym of parental responsibility - or so they say. They can say that, judges raised in the comfort of safety and ignorance that he provided for a decade and more, but never mind that lifetime of service - never mind the pain he felt sentencing his little hearts and souls to death. All that mattered was their pain, their loss, their tears, no matter that he'd saved their lives and given them a second chance at happiness - a second chance they hadn't provided him.

Shaking his head to clear the echoes of soprano voices shrieking between his ears, he strikes one solid fore-hoof against the smooth stone lining the hot spring, forcing himself entirely into the present with its sharp reverberation. "Is there anywhere here that doesn't get shat on by the weather?" Is there anywhere here that he can hide until the break of spring?

if you love me, don’t let go —

“Away from the Basin? What good is a homeland that you can’t call home for whole seasons of the year?” Thoughtlessly, angrily, the words burst from his mouth, surprise shaping them to a razors edge. “Well where do you spend your time then? Aside from the various beds you’ve made.” The jab is unkind and completely unwarranted; he knows that, but it’s not the harshness of the comment or any film of regret that silences him. It’s something infinitely more selfish.

Up until this point he’s enjoyed an almost complete disregard from the rest of the herd. Without a name, a title, or a backstory he’s just some ‘old geezer,’ wandering the valley. No one of note. No one to silence loose tongues or break off slanderous gossip around. After living an entire life with every eye and ear trained to his movements twenty-four hours a day, being able to fade into the scenery of someone else’s drama is a liberating experience. One that will quickly be extinguished if his smartass mouth can’t keep from jabbing petty insults at every inch of exposed skin it finds nearby.

“Not that I wouldn’t welcome the chinking of golden chains in my cave some time you know.” He tries at smoothing the indiscretion over, hoping Miss-Gets-Around will toss it up to his terrible manners – which he did warn her about so there's no playing the victim now – instead of an active curiosity in others affairs. She must know by now how rumors have spread, what with little Rein wandering about and his easily recognized parents so rarely witnessed together.

The aforementioned decorative loops slip across Rexanna's body with every small movement, drawing the stallion's eyes from one part of her anatomy to another, or is it the impact of his own suggestion? He can see why so many names have willingly written themselves in her little black book. One ear flicks forward as he tilts his head and puckers his upper lip to reach toward the tiny links.

"Where do you get those by the way? Mortuus Nox has jewelry too." An emerald studded cuff for his left horn, made of silver. Albrecht remembers, but why does he remember so well? He never had an interest in such frivolous indulgences before - or did he just not have time to?

if you love me, don’t let go —

She teases him, using her pretty smile and solicitous words to muddle his thoughts, but his ailing eyes have yet to succumb to total blindness. He’s not naïve enough to believe her suggestions, as appealing as they are. Her body is everything that his is not: young, strong, beautiful, well-kept, hygienic even. In a side by side comparison his could be mistaken for a half-eaten corpse. Even a devout necrophiliac would find little appeal in his threadbare hide and bag of bones appearance, the few extra pounds of meat he’s been able to tuck away between his ribs doing nothing so far for overall appearance. Still though, the words were spun in a teasing, light-hearted way, not the cutting appraisal they could have been.

Fickle, he decides. That’s what she is. No harlot trading flesh for favors, no home-wrecker bent on destroying others happiness for the sake of mourning her own, no heart-breaker thriving off the obsessive attentions of others. Just a fickle woman, giving love and taking love where and how she sees fit. He’s imagined a much more sinister appetite to be inside her - based on the comments he’s heard - and finding otherwise deflates his usual audacity. Simply enjoying physical company is an indulgence of life, not a character flaw. If she’d been born with an out-ie instead of an in-ie her friends would clap her on the back and laugh and congratulate her, not ridicule her name behind her back. He just doesn’t see anything wrong with having a good time – male or female.

“You might be surprised what these old joints can still accomplish.” Quietly, gently, all the fire extinguished from his voice, though he offers a mimicry of the playful wink she gave to him just moments before. “Age brings experience you know.” He doubts that she'd know. All the living, breathing bodies he’s seen in this new world of Helovia have been young and nubile. Based on that population sample he’s probably the oldest, crustiest bastard in all the land. Now there’s an esteem booster.

Hurt flickers across the golden girls face for a moment and the stallion wonders if his earlier harshness hasn’t cut her after all, but just as quickly as it veils her eyes it disappears again, renewed humor taking up its place. Would he like to adventure with her? Uh, no – he’s not the adventuring type. But would he like to go somewhere warmer? Get out of the snow and sleet? Hellz to the yes.

“Okay. Just don’t drag me halfway across the universe like Tangere did bringing me here." He shakes his hairy pencil neck, dislodging a few stubborn snowflakes from the outer surface of his scarf. "Though I’m sure the view would be just as appealing, I don't think I'm up to a second pilgrimage yet. Or ever, probably."


//

OOC: Feel free to toss up a new thread where-ever and when-ever you like. I'll be away this weekend but if you tag me I'll reply as soon as I get back. :D