The summer rain falls in heavy sheets across the Crossing. Sylens’ sun-lightened mane and coat are slicked and darkened again from the downpour, but he doesn’t mind too much. He swishes his heavy tail, slapping it against his painted legs. Water streams down his body in little rivulets, which feel rather pleasant, and the battering, warm droplets feel almost like a massage on his back. Above him, in the open air the trees do not reach, the sky is dark and groggy. He turns his face up into the storm, his mismatched eyes closing as the clouds shower his broad forehead and white-marked nose with a generous dose of rain. He chuckles low in his throat. He has been wandering the Crossing nearly a year now, keeping to himself, too reclusive to form much interest in the others who pass through here. But he watches.
He knows about the rules of the Commons, and in the past has avoided the place. He has no land to which he can bring a prize, and the thought of himself being claimed has simply never crossed his mind. He knows of the strange warrior mare leaders of this place, but he knows they are not… truly equal. His consideration of them never runs deep enough for him to connect the possibility that if mares can keep herds, stallions can be kept.
Today, he ventures into the Commons out of boredom. He does not suspect there will be anyone here with the driving rain, and he has grown bored of the Meadow and Falls. He strolls leisurely through the sopping grass, not quite flooded enough to create mud, only bothering to shake himself when the water gets into his eyes. He is not the type to play, but just walking through the downpour gives him a sense of enjoyment he imagines is similar to that of foals when they spar or race.
He is alone, or at least he thinks he is. The light here is dim through the heavy cloud cover, and Sylens’ eyes - one gold, one blue - trace the lines of the trees for movement. He is solitary, but also predatory, and part of him hungers for someone to prey upon, whether that someone is a mare to antagonize or a stallion with whom to pick a fight over nothing. He slows, then stops, in the middle of the Commons, waiting. To spend the rain storm alone would be lovely, but to find some poor soul to spend it with… that would be a treat.
SYLENS
in the dead of night, she holds me like a hand grenade
