The colder months had never been among Roland’s favourites. It was the beginning of autumn and a brisk chill had begun to set in, drawing with it the first snows in the northernmost reaches of the Aurora Basin. Wind sung through the rocky crevasses of the mountains, weaving a haunting ballad that followed the Phantom as he walked, unaware of the direction he was heading in. The rocky ground beneath him was splashed with ice, creating an uneven surface that was nigh impossible to maneuver with grace. The land began to slope upwards, winding towards the mountains that loomed overhead like silent guardians. Large, erratic boulders dotted the meandering path and Roland wound around them as a snake might, choosing each footfall with caution.

It was a bleak day, the sky clouded over and dark while the sun was hidden behind a cloak of gray. Thick, wet snowflakes tumbled to the ground, dancing on the wind as if given wings. The rugged path gradually evened out as Roland neared a cave, allowing the dun time to direct his attention elsewhere. He moved towards the gaping maw set into the cliff side, eager to find shelter under its arch and solace among his thoughts. The tension lingering between the Dragon’s Throat and the Basin troubled him almost as if it were a tangible weight resting upon his shoulders.

He was no seasoned veteran of war, but he had fought, in his own way; rather than with hooves and teeth his weapons were words and shadows. The job of a spy wasn’t as physically taxing as the duties of a soldier, but there was no lack of threat. Every dawn he had woken with the knowledge that he might not live to see the dusk.

If the Basin hovered on the brink of war against the Throat, which he sincerely hoped they weren’t, then of course he would be expected to answer the call of battle once again. While he would be happy to fight for his home, no matter how long he had lived in it, he had mixed feelings about having to return to the battlefield, for he was a coward at heart. He would never admit to it, or even acknowledge its presence, but the fact remained. The thought of being harmed or killed shook him to his very core, though he was desperate to hide his consternation. He did not want to see another home fall to the chaos that trailed closely on the heels of war; did not want to watch the untainted valley fill with the scent of blood and the sounds of angered calls and pained cries.

He snorted softly, slipping out of the wind and growing storm into the quiet that the icy hollow provided. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he realized with a jolt that he was not alone. A black figure stood with him amidst the shadows, sporting a crown of thorns atop her head. Roland eyed the barbs upon the mare’s horn with uncertainty as he neared, footsteps announcing his presence as his hooves clacked against the ice. He tilted his chin as he approached, noting the faraway look on the black’s face.

“Is something troubling you?” He ventured, hoping he wouldn’t startle her. Before speaking he had determined that a forward approach was best, for he did not want to appear hesitant and unconfident if she did not receive him kindly. Any boldness he exuded in his voice and brazen stature was false and impersonated, for he did not bestow trust upon even his own herd mates until they had earned it from him.

(Hope you don’t mind that I took the liberty of assuming Chernobyl’s location.)

walk walk walk
"talk talk talk"