albrecht

There’s a sweet smell in the air of the north today, not the light fragrance of Birdsong flowers, but something stronger, something tangy and new for Orangemoon. It draws the old stallion out with its’ promise of rare delicacies, trailing him nose first across the steppe, his companion helping to guide where age and changes in wind currents strive to confuse, bringing him slowly but surely to the edge of a small clearing guarded by massive pines.

In the shade of the tree's needle canopy he doesn’t notice the other stallion at first, multiple flashes of white leaping away into the surrounding forest helping to distract his attention. Deer? He guesses, recognizing the bounding strides and fluffy white bottoms even as they recede from vision. He assumes he startled them himself, being generally rickety and ungraceful, so when a glimmer of gold catches his attention from the opposite side he stops, turning to see who - or what - it is.

‘Not nice.’ His companion announces, still solidly against the Basin Lord for the storm of negativity their last one-on-one encounter conjured. Rikyn, his bonded corrects, trying to expand the snake’s vocabulary to at least include a few names, the ‘not nice’ list getting to be a little too long for use in identifying. He does concede that he’s not up for another emotional shit storm though, his ears flicking uncertainly. Should he leave? He wonders, but he can discern the strawberries for what they are now, his stomach clenching to remind him of its' neglect. Maybe he could just keep his distance then? The meadow’s not that small.

Face wary, he changes course to follow the outside curve of the meadow, aiming to position himself at the opposite end of the meadow from Lord Asshole, but before he makes it half a dozen steps in that direction something cream and tawny shoots upward from the low brush in front of him. Body tense, legs splayed in surprise, he stares down at the little figure, and the figure stares back, its' spindly legs quivering in uncertainty.

The enormous eyes blink, rolling over the figure in front of him, a worried and questioning bleat slipping from newborn lips before the fawn realizes that all the parts of this creature are wrong. Mother is tall, but not that tall. She's not hairy or dark either, and she certainly doesn't smell so bad.

Certain now that the fawn isn't a threat, the old stallion's expression softens, his head lowering to make him seem smaller, less threatening. He tilts his head, admiring the large squares of white that blanket the newborn's back, and a low wuffle of greeting flutters past his nostrils. "Hello little one."


"Talk."
OOC // @Rikyn I hope you don't mind me pushing this up to Orangemoon! Also feel free to PP the fawn, though I imagine he'd run pretty soon after this.

Oh where have you been,
That it hurts to be forgiving?