Posted on January 22, 2013 at 08:34:16 PM by s o l g a r
 solgar It is late winter, and finally the seemingly endless dusk of the season has begun to loosen its grip. No longer is the blue of the sky darkened and dulled by cloud cover and a lack of sunlight; today it is bright cerulean, smeared with pale wisps of cirrus formations, and upon its great canvas Solgar can see the dark arc of The Watcher's wings spread wide. The great eagle soars while hardly stirring a feather, calling in its sharp, musical voice over and over, and the stallion watches it intently, brown eyes turn upwards toward the sky to follow its path. There is no unwont scent on the breeze, and there are no panicked movements in the bird's flight: it cuts lazily through the air in huge circles, indicating there is nothing on the ground that might be the cause for its uncharacteristic vocality.
It seems lonely, Solgar thinks, chewing on his bottom lip. With spring in the air, he can only assume that the bird is on the prowl for a mate, or is being extra vigilant should rivals decide to come sniffing around its territory. I should be doing the same. Since he had settled here six months ago, the eagle had been a source of constant [if detached] solace and reliability, alerting him to the smallest change in his home even in the depths of the blackest, coldest winter night. It had been as if they'd had a silent agreement written on the wind. But with the temperatures rising, Solgar knows that there is an increased risk of strange, hormone-pumped men braving the ocean currents to start trouble. And if The Watcher is otherwise occupied, he must begin to take things into his own hands. He begins by heading to the coast, where any scent-marks are quickly and easily worn away by the elements. Hooves crunching through the collapsed crust of the month-old snow, he strolls leisurely, head bobbing as if to some unheard tune, for he is in no real hurry. It isn't long before he notices that someone has already beat him to the chase, however. Out in the open, her ruddy coat contrasting against the beige, blue, and white of the snowy shore, it would be difficult to miss Neassa. He picks up his pace, loping towards her at a slow trot, but is too feverishly occupied with tracing the almost comical swell of her sides to notice that there is another just beyond her. In order to disguise the sudden sickness he feels at remembering that the roan mare is likely pregnant, he reaches forward and playfully nips the skin on her hip when he at last comes upon her. Pulling up beside the mare, he finally notices the pale stranger, but only stares blankly and without recognition, dark eyes clouded with the distraction of an internal struggle. 11; mustang; blue roan; 15'3hh; inlet; shiva |
Replies:
- Butterfly fly away - By Neassa January 23, 2013 at 01:16:19 PM
- "Blood of my ancestors.." - By volpe January 25, 2013 at 05:32:34 AM
- From a summers thread - By Winter January 25, 2013 at 11:32:22 AM
- he who fears losing has already lost - By S O L G A R January 25, 2013 at 07:33:55 PM
- Butterfly fly away - By Neassa January 29, 2013 at 02:17:26 PM
- "Blood of my ancestors.." - By volpe February 2, 2013 at 08:31:38 PM
- x - By Solgar February 9, 2013 at 05:57:26 PM
- "Blood of my ancestors.." - By volpe February 2, 2013 at 08:31:38 PM
- Butterfly fly away - By Neassa January 29, 2013 at 02:17:26 PM
- he who fears losing has already lost - By S O L G A R January 25, 2013 at 07:33:55 PM
- From a summers thread - By Winter January 25, 2013 at 11:32:22 AM
- "Blood of my ancestors.." - By volpe January 25, 2013 at 05:32:34 AM
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