.svg/2000px-Google_Chrome_icon_(2011).svg.png){kind=icon}
12-25-2016, 07:02 PM
|
ALBRECHT and strom
The wizened old stallion turns his head, both ears cupping to the sudden chiming of bells. He peers around the trunk of the tree, captivated again by the moving, lifelike mural of the turtles shell as it morphs from one scene to another, all equally and appropriately cheerful. Most of the grouch lines actually smooth from his perpetually sour expression - just for a moment - and then the turtle decides to try his way as a childrens writer, reminding him with each successive rhyme and the answering giggles of young Helovians exactly why he shouldn't be here. Apathy, misery, hatred, and sadness, all the components of old bastard stallions. He snorts his derision, though under his breath. The python above him is a picture of contrast, still delightedly exploring the trinkets and decorations on the tree, completely taken with the turtles song and swaying along the branches to his whimsical rhythm, refusing to come down while his bonded mopes. I already put a thing on the tree, he reminds the snake, glancing up to try to pick his companions charcoal belly scales out of the trees natural browns and greens. As if on cue, and just to spite him, the trunk and branches begin to glow at that particular moment, blinding him to anything above and making him shuffle back a few paces to reorient himself. Something metallic clinks against his hooves as he steps back, drawing his attention downward. He's not sure in the whitewash of light exactly what the small items are, but he scoops them up anyway, tucking the little caps into his all purpose scarf and glancing quickly around to see if any of the other tree decorators have noticed. "Talk." I told him to take care of his eyes, because they're the only balls he has. |
![[Image: 56c616e54affc]](http://images.helovia.net/index.php/view/56c616e54affc)
