Meadow

He shivers against Winter's frigid breath. His coat is thin and sleek, compared to the other's who have grown thick, fluffy winter coats. He swivels his chiseled head and his nostrils flare, thick plumes of steam roll from his nostrils with every breath. He moves with grace and purpose across the brittle, snow laden grasses of the Meadow. His tail flags up and over his haunches as he draws to a halt; dark eyes linger on every wanderer who has found themselves in the Meadow on this brisk winter morning.

A movement draws his attention. A mare with delicate features and feathers on her legs clings to the shadows and does her best not to draw attention. He only waits a breath, before he pivots and heads in her direction. Her mahogany hide is a stark contrast against the pale and tepid hues of the Meadow.

This land was so different in comparison of Salem. Winter does not crack down on them as hard as it does of the other Islands. Yes, there is a change... but not like the frigid winters of Tinuvel. He shivers even at the thought of spending a winter in the frigid land of the north.

He raises his crown higher on his sleek neck as he draws close to her. "Winter breathes her frigid breath on this land," he says as his eyes find her dark gaze. As if to prove his point another gust of frigid wind, sends the bare branches above their heads creaking and moaning. With the gust of wind, the snow that had been atop of their branches floats down around them. It clings to his sleek mahogany skin and instantly melts against his warmth.