The dark holes of his eyes were hard chasms. They allowed the reflecting snow to crawl in and burn moisture to the surface, and with the wind at winter's aid it did not help the sun-child look any more like a man. It stung like someone sliced his eyes with scissors and water bled to the surface, toppled over his eyelids and stained his skin. Was the boy crying? Of course he wasn't crying. He'd never cry, even if the cold's teeth bit into his eyes (which it did) or extinguished his flame-ridden heart.

Cyrus felt his voice change with Frostfall. This damned cold-creature whom he hated so much, changed everything. All of the other seasons were not this drastic in change. Every season has grass, leaves, birth, and hope. This time of year was the end of all that. A completely new renovation to the world screaming "here's something else for you mortals to endure." Cyrus felt as if the other gods were wailing mockery with this screeching winter. How dare they disrespect the god of the Sun.

The boy removed his muzzle from the mumbling sabino. He shouldn't waste his time recruiting the weak. His brain ticked down quick time and not long after he heard the padding hoofsteps of a stallion fuzzed over with light, buttermilk hairs. Cyan eyes twitched with curiosity as his blackened face appeared to his line of clarity. The entire side of his face was heavily scathed - a burn he guessed. It looked as if liquid lead leaked from the contours of his skin, violating the tissues and color that once laid there, and from that he could tell this stallion was an authoritarian of whatever land he did own (or should own for that matter.) He was strong, and it isn't just me telling you that. Cyrus noticed almost immediately as he brushed up against him, instantly acquainted. It was the bulky helix of impenetrable beef that first settled in the boy's mind. He imagined the fight this stallion could boast. The flaxen couldn't think a way of winning over such an animal, but he sure would like to train with him.

He liked the way he spoke with such wisdom and directness. Cyrus tried that taste on his tongue. "Yes, girl you'll be dead before Frostfall's deposits bury you."

And after that the mare's voice of voodoo drowned his ears in foreign manure. 'What the hell was she saying?' Her voice frightened him. She was obviously sick in some mental state, spitting out a couple words he could actually understand a minute. The gaps between the words were so far that he couldn't piece together the flawed words anyway. He'd forgotten them. He drew back, away from this terrible mare to let her possessed bodice tremble about in the cold. Then she said something he understood. It was a disgusting way to warp his language, but he at least deciphered it. "I am Cyrus of the Foothills. And uh, who you?" He had no idea if she understood that hoarse, slow rasp from the bottom of his slightly boggled mind, but if she did, he guessed it be better than this.

Time seemed not to pass now, and more emerged from the sparse wood. Some were new, and others were hardly familiar. Some part of him wanted to recognize the Pegasus thing, but another part dismissed the thought.

[Sorry, I tried my best to squeeze everyone in here. This post was a matter of fifteen minutes <3]