Meadow

A storm: the air pregnant, made heavy with the promise of toiling. It sidled along his flesh, lighting each synapse. A glowering expression soon made its, its heated palms changing the malleable tin of his face. the fingers prodded and pricking creating for itself an austere and incriminating mask. a billow of a grunt forced vapors past his lips and nostrils, as his eyes held skyward. A grunt seemed to echo his and Nicholas turned his worn face towards the other.

Another lone wolf expelled.

He began to take a step towards him, though fell a colt interrupting his path. Every inch of his expression warped, manifesting something equal parts annoyance and bemusement. He'd no use for children, no inkling for paternal instinct. He was puzzled by the colt and looked for the one who ought to be minding the youth. He was never intentionally unkind; he'd never had designs to forage pettiness and nurture intentional cruelty. Though his heart knew manners of generosity, he'd shades of nothing to offer to the colt: no means of shelter, no protection, nor interest in rising the ire of any banshee of a mother or fickle tempers of a titan sire. "If you have a home, you ought to go back before the storm comes, Lest you want to be fodder for wolves."

The warm crackle of his voice subsided, eyeing the errant youth with a stern look before grunting back to the other bound in age, experience; yet, marked by something undone, bound by some cruel hands that fixed his abilities into emptiness. The blindness set onto the stage, Nicholas divined it from the fettered flesh and eye. It would seem fate would test his own mettle, his temperance: baiting him with a pair bound to need; invalid, by their own fallacies. Blindness, or inexperience. On better days, Nicholas would not have the patience or kindness for either.

Loss softened him, it would seem. "You there," his words cast towards Anawar. "I'm Nicholas."