It has become apparent to the stallion, perhaps through some shred of introspection, or perhaps by the manner in which even the birds seem to cease singing and take wing upon his arrival, that his social skills are lacking. He is a loner, but no fool; he understands fully that the massive beast with the tree on his back that leaves a trail of snow is not the first choice in which to make a friend. He is aware that he, who strikes before giving his name, is off-putting. Up until recently, however, this has been a blessing.

But suddenly he has found himself in the company of others, and constantly. Life among the herd has forced him to branch out*- to extend the shadow of his boughs and accomodate others. There is never, anymore, a moment of peace. He is assaulted by the expectation that he must contribute and participate often, and it is becoming more and more difficult to find time to himself.

So, as lazy as he is, he chooses this day to wander beyond the borders of the foothills. He moves at a bored and uneven pace, dragging his armored hoof across the shadowed ground and leaving a thick trail where he walks. From behind, carried on the wind by magic and a hymn, his snow begins to fall.

Or at least it should. But when the first flake hits his thin skin, it feels like fire. Hot ash falls where snow would once blanket and comfort him. He begins to run from the trailing, burning specks- begins to lumber through the threshold wood without thought, breaking through low hanging branches and slicing apart the chilled air with the towering mass of his lifeplant. Strange shadows are cast by the stallion who runs on burned heels towards the water ahead. He stops shortly, the few remains of his cursed magic still clinging to his coat and burning holes into the skin as his legs submerge into the water. The cool, threshold stream splashes up around his hocks, barely licking the ashen drops from his skin.

And then he sees her, out of the corner of his eye. A mare he hadn't even registered, now fully formed before him. It is as if she has simply appeared from thin air. His lips part as if to speak, his white eyes try to catch her own. There is nothing he can do to salvage this; he stands there a dripping, hulking warrior far removed from the situation. His teeth are ground tight, his muscles tensed as the pain from the fiery flecks fades away.

He can't force a smile onto his features; try as he might to improve his social skills, he refuses to lie for as foolish a reason as this. He nods, tossing a thin wave of hair as he does so, and looks her squarely in the eyes. Entirely unafraid but awkward as hell, he speaks simply: "Hello."



[[*Shoot me now.]]

Her self-confidence and audacity is really quite charming in such a sickening way that it isn't charming it all. Birch notices immediately how his body stiffens at the sound of her arrogant voice. His light hooves embed themselves harshly into riverbed rocks and his muscles tighten and pull at old scars until he is left in a state of aching discomfort. Now that she has spoken and let such foolish words fly forth from her lips, he likes her less. He pictures himself crushing her legs beneath the unyielding silver of his boot, and then, almost gaily, standing triumphantly over her fallen figure. He sees himself beaming with a twisted sort of pride while she lays moaning beneath him.

But no. He will grin and bear it today. His body arches in the opposite manner as does hers; he leans forward to fill the space she left behind. He could crush her in an instant, he thinks. She barely deserves to breath the air that keeps him alive, he thinks. But it is not his place to kill. He is no divine instrument and no meddler in fate. Things will happen as they happen. A mare as obnoxious as she will surely meet her end in a fitting manner some day.

He wonders upon his own end, but only briefly. The silence between them is growing too long, and he must end it swiftly with another poorly formed remark as he attempts to recreate parts of a successful conversation he thinks he may have heard once while partially asleep. He is not entirely certain about that one.

"My apologies. It is good, though, that the threat of it was presented. How else could I have known you've such a fighter's spirit?" He asks in a voice that is a deep, yet saccharine expression of his earnest effort. He is not very good at this, but he tries so very hard. He grunts lowly and angles forward, shaking off some of the stream water as he leaves its confines and moves forth to stand beside her. "If your bite matches your bark, perhaps you could be counted among the ranks of The Grey," he adds with an upwards tilt of his head and a downwards cast of his eyes. Perhaps he is touting some authority, and perhaps this is a foolish idea given that he has none. Perhaps he is just angling to get a better look at her.

Whatever it is, he doubts she will be impressed. Stupid mare.

He can't help it anymore. He is a stallion with little patience, one who grits his teeth and grinds his hooves into the dirt when anger rises within him. The red flecks among white seem to ignite as his lids lift up and more light hits his perceptive eyes. His nostrils flare and he looks down at the mare. Down, down, down with a look of disapproval. He does what he can to contain himself.

He does a piss poor job, but it is good enough for him. For him, it is as good as it is going to get. His body retreats back through the threshold stream and onto the opposite shore. slowly but surely. He stands at a distance from her, pawing at the earth and staining the silver of his boot with mud. She isn't interested, he thinks with rising frustration. She doesn't work on a team.

WELL NEITHER THE FUCK DOES HE. And yet here he is, trying to make friends, trying SO FUCKING HARD to make something normal of himself, something moral of himself. She spits on his efforts. Her spit seeps through his flesh and thins his sap-blood. Her fluid fills his veins with the liquid fire of a foolish equine colt and elicits within him a stern rage. He wants to charge at her, to rear and smash her skull with the solid silver of his boot, to tear the flesh on her pretty little princess' face and leave her bloody.

She calls him branch-boy like he is nothing; tells him he is a mammoth like he is no more than a bothersome child on the battlefield where he does not belong. She is nothing. He is not much, but she is even less. She dances with her future and makes the leading step; she will trip on the feet of fate, Birch assures himself. As he seethes with hatred for her mind and body, for her confidence and incompetence, he takes comfort in the fact that if anyone is to die of foolishness in this wood, it will be she.

"Find your own way, bitch," he spits with a snarling sort of neigh as he begins to turn away from her at last. His voice still holds that familiar trace of honey, his body still moves slowly and measuredly. Ash floats around him as his anger rises and as he takes steps away from her, but this time he does not feel the burn. He will make friends somewhere else, he tells himself. He won't let her stop him, he thinks.

He will never amount to anything better than what he is now, he knows.

[[ Birch out :| ]]