He’s not normally inclined to take on the role of welcome party, but when the old black catches sight of the
other white faced stallion - the preppy, jokey one – trying to choke down a mouthful of leathery textured, near inedible tundra scrub, he has to pause, an expression of mixed disgust and amusement quirking his lips.
"You lost, pretty boy?” He calls teasingly, changing his course from southward, having intended to seek out the Grove and its gentle quiet, to eastward, moving down the hill and away from the twin sentinels collapsing into themselves at the border.
The ground is uneven, pocked with hoof holes created in the mud of last Orangemoon and frozen solid over Frostfall, the slopes difficulty only increasing with the sudden blooming of Birdsong grasses and shrubbery, the season having attracted too little traffic to smooth the path into something respectable and easily traversed before the heat of Tallsun baked it into a minefield of crumbling, toe catching gulfs perfectly designed to trip and send tumbling any careless - or rickety - travelers.
Further disadvantaged by his age and natural lankiness, the old black stumbles and half-hops his way down, his movements made jerky and unnatural by arthritis, the thin and dirty state of his haggard body either making him appear tragic or ridiculous. Despite it all, he somehow keeps his temper, continuing to prod at the other stallion as he shambles to halt nearby.
“Or maybe you just enjoy making yourself gag.” He grins, remembering the young stallions obvious distress at his lowbrow sense of humor the last time they’d met and fully expecting a similar reaction now.
“There are more interesting ways you know.”
"Talk."
OOC //
@Ezital
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