An alpha he had once been in another land, a king that sat on a velveteen throne, overlooking an empire that spread over softly rolling slopes of red clay. Amongst their sides were tufts of aromatic sage that bled scarlet come autumn, as well as lowlands stuffed with metallic crowned aspens and Ponderosa pines scented with sap of vanilla. There were fleshy pink bitterroots that blanketed the earth’s scalp come spring, as well as an assortment of wild daisies and prairie poppies, bright stocks of color to stand beneath the infinite azure sky. From where he had stood on the shale ridge that looked out to the coppery rock cathedrals to the south, the acres reached out to the very edge of the realm itself, a place of warped mists and wetness, guarded by mountains that defended it from the outside world. That terra had been his home, his soul almost, where those closest to him resided in relative peace, protected from the rash harm bestowed from the outside world. That had been his haven, the oasis compacted in the depths of his heart, an unusually dark place that throbbed with the will of a hidden beast.
It had been a fight with his oldest son, one of red dun like himself if in a lighter shade, spotted with the markings of his dam. They had been battling, ripping skin with untrimmed teeth and compacting muscle with jagged hooves; bruising and wounding with a type of ferocity deeply rooted. It had taken place on the sultry cliffs, the blooded faces of rock that jutted out into the mindless ocean stemmed from the horizon. All it had taken was a single misstep, a quick grab of flesh pinched between jaws, a fling of weight into the awaiting rapids many yards below. And then there was the fall, the plummet that screamed between their interlocked bodies, a race and shout of air that rippled their hairs and beat at their flanks. A smash had followed after it, two masses hitting into a hardened face of salt water, one that shocked them and ultimately yanked them apart. Aqua had flooded his nose and mouth, burned his eyes and nibbled roughly at his ears as he fought against the undercurrent, paddling with all his might to return to the beach to head back home without a single thought of his blooded opponent. It had been too mighty however, too convicted to undermine him, and so, Mellow had been carried out to sea, to the oblique unknown hung in the shadow of the horizon.
Unfortunately, none of this he remembered.
The part of his intricate mind in which stored and nurtured his history had been shaken, rattled into a shock it couldn’t seem to escape. For that reason, it had curled up in a far corner, hidden in an invisible shell he couldn’t locate for the best of him. He had swam to the common’s beach only a few days ago, dropped in a new, unfamiliar realm that sang with oddness. He knew he was, recognized his name and such, but nothing more. It was like being blind and tunneling into snare-trapped darkness, relying solely on the unknown for some type of guidance. In the same manner, it was how he had ended up there, how he had swam through the frigid brinks that connected the islands to arrive in one that dawned the calling of Salem. That part was warmer for sure, glowered upon by the sun and dusted, just as his old home had been, the one he could not remember. All through the night he had traveled, stalking along in loud, somber hoof beats that bellowed off into the distance. He was a clad of sunstone, fringed by thick, coarse hairs of scarlet and points of liquidized copper that extended to his hocks and knees, ending in mahogany feral slashes. An underlay of scored muscle stood beneath his pelt, a coat ravaged by incandescent gashes that stood out against the orange hairs as laces of pearl.
Mellow was a warhorse in all accounts, thick with robust brawny, yet refined with a type of length that blessed him with a handsome face and a type of faint sleekness. He was your classic Warmblood, a mince of draft and desert horse, combined with care to make a beast such as himself. Now in the chipper sunlight of the early morning, his shadow danced alongside of his flank, a prancing, dark silhouette to mimic his every fluid stride. With each bend of bone and contraction of tendon, the fibers beneath his skin shifted and contoured, creating blackness that foamed alongside the golden sheen his apricot dun coat adorned. After heading along for hours as of then, neck in keel with his withers, head hung lazily, he had come upon a desert, a realm of cracked footing and dryness. His senses were on high as he continued on further, his masculine aroma carrying off into the distance, his stance that of bore, completely unthreatening as he came to a final halt on the outskirts.
.stallion. .8 years. .apricot dun. .the vagrant. .alexis.
M E L L O W
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