Winter was approaching. The air had a crisp edge that snaked down his throat and ensnared his lungs. Fall was stepping down from her throne of leaves and passing the sceptre to father winter. He took great delight in gracing the stallion with frigid misery. The wind nipped at his darkened flesh, searching for remnants of warmth that had adorned his body before the icy plunge.
Быстрее Romanov. Сильнее Romanov. You have to be более жесток Romanov. Raise your head. Do not speak unless you have something worth hearing. Do not let your dam's blood weaken you.
The words of his sire echoed through his head. Dragolov had been a strict man who expected nothing less than perfection from his son. It had moulded a spirited colt to the stoic man he was today. Once he had been guilty of laughter and a smiling visage but today he wore a constant r.b.f. that deterred other from approaching. It was said expression that adorned his face as he stepped free of the ocean.
Romanov's small crown was lifted high, auds pricked as he surveyed the shoreline. His sparse mane was plastered to his neck much like his plume that snake around one of his slim pillars. The rich blood hue of his flesh was now akin to that of spilled wine with his dappling on stark display. He was all lean muscles and long legs that swiftly covered the ground as he headed away from the ocean. It would do no good to linger by the shoreline.
He had no true destination in mind. The island he had found himself on was nothing like the place he had once called home. Onyx eyes peered around with muted interest, taking note of the piles of fallen leaves and the heady scent of mares in estrus. It seemed he had come at a time where the season was changing and stallions would be fighting for the next fuck. To sire offspring that would carry on their lineage -- proudly or with dishonour remained to be seen.
The stallion paused when he came across a clearing. A deep inhale brought a myriad of scents. The area he had stumbled upon seemed to gather equines on the daily. Some carried foreign perfumes that indicated a potential of band stallion territories. Did they all call this one island home or was there more to be found?
"How примитивный."
Romanov shook his crown but did not allow the disappoint to paint his features. He had thrown his lot in with this country. He could not turn back time and change the past. The place he had taken his first breath would be forever lost to him. He had been banished and banished he would stay. A forsaken Czar.
"зима, where have I found myself?" |
