(ooc: this thread is open for anyone, though just so you’re aware this is set before the events of the war in the forest, i.e. back in spring. it just took me a while to get around to it lmao)
To an outward eye, Kune was the pinnacle of health. He was in his prime, his tall frame bearing all the badges of an active lifestyle, with silvery scars from regular spars criss-crossing his dark hide, under which taut muscles rippled with every step. His pronounced Roman nose was held high and imposing in the manner of his people, and even his chalk-white hooves had been filed smooth from the many scrapes and scuffs of his rocky mountain home.
Yet if one looked a little closer, one would see a feverishness to his dark eyes: eyes that wandered without really seeing, without taking any interest in the lush spring meadow through which he traipsed, or the dozens of unfamiliar faces that he passed.
Kune was lost - not physically, but deep within the murky abyss of his soul, as if he had found himself in an emotional no-man’s land, with thick fog obscuring his vision in every direction. The Peak loomed stark and proud in the distance, but he refused to look at it, as if to do so would provide yet another blow to his already torn and tattered heart. The Peak was his home, and it would be until the day Bozena decided to leave it behind - if that day ever came - but right now it brought him no comfort to be there. He could only find the slightest bit of solace and peace from the clamor in his head here, in a place where he was surrounded by strangers. Yet it was still not enough.
He wandered aimlessly, moving to calm the restlessness in his legs, until one front hoof splashed into something and he realized he was standing at the foot of a waterfall, the water tumbling from overhead like a huge silver ribbon that thundered where it hit the pool below. Kune could feel its cool mist against his skin, and it was so refreshing that for a moment he managed to think of nothing else. Stepping carefully along the stony bank of the stream, Kune neared the falls a little more, admiring its beauty and wondering if--
--but no, he shouldn’t. Or should he?
Kune was not normally a stallion of impulse. His mind was methodical and logical and slow to come to conclusions. Back in his homeland, horses had been thought of as naturally comprised of different elements: there were those who were dreamy and idealistic like air, or driven, fast, and flowing like water; those who were fierce, unstable, and fiery, and those who were stable, stubborn, and grounded like earth. Everyone who had ever known Kune had said he was the earthiest horse there ever was.
Yet he found himself shedding that shroud of caution now, as he stepped into the shallow, churning water. Cold prickled up his legs and lapped at his chest, but he carried on, finally ducking into the curtain of water. It hit him with the force of a kick, and shocked the breath from his lungs, but for those moments in which Kune stood there, letting the waterfall drown his senses and cleanse him body and soul, he could think of nothing else.
And it was bliss.
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