Finally, after weeks upon weeks of sleeplessness, the arctic summer is gone, and its disappearance has cued the endless light of day to begin slipping away. Solgar had been watching the first time the sun had dipped below the bleak grey horizon and plunged his home into sweet dusky darkness. It had lasted only minutes, of course, but it had made the blue roan stallion deliriously happy (which is saying something, considering he is hardly ever happy about anything). And while he is somewhat of a simple-minded creature, he is intelligent enough at least to have deduced the unique pattern of the arctic seasons, and has come to understand that the days will grow longer and longer until they are, mercifully, back to a normal length.
And then, finally, he will be able to sleep through the night again, and perhaps even put back on the weight he has lost. Even if it is as cold as an iceberg's fart.
For now, though, he will remain as droopy-eyed, fuzzy-minded, and irritable as ever, due in part to the fact that the ladies of the inlet are beginning to come into season. Already he has given into his instincts and mounted Neassa, but the affair had left him feeling a confusing mixture of emotions, namely discomfort. He has not been close to any woman in a long time, and finds it awkward to shed his inhibitions around them. If he had his way, he would not touch anyone else ever, but his hormones are going haywire, and he is almost completely at their mercy, driven mad with desire when he even so much as looks at one of the girls, but equally he is too stubborn to let himself give into his whims again.
It's times like this that he is saddened by the fact he is only flesh, blood, and bone: a giant sack of meat for, effectively, one which has limitations, flaws, and a seeming mind of its own.
In the shadows of the trees a comfortable distance away from his women (almost far enough that one might think he didn't give a horsefly's bottom about them) is where he finds the most comfort in these trying times. Here at least it is relatively quiet but for the occasional cry of The Watcher, or the snapping of a twig as a rabbit bounds past, and so he is able to snatch a few blessed moments of shuteye before he can hear the faint sound of someone nearing him, their hoof beats muffled on the soft, snowless ground. He groans under his breath and keeps his eyes closed, as if willing himself to fall back to sleep. It's a futile effort, of course, and soon enough it's clear that the individual has found him, for they're so close behind him he can hear their breath.
"Aye?" he mutters, not bothering to turn to see who it is.
|