Meadow

Dark clouds and a great snow storm preceded his arrival.

Bitter cold, bracing against his flesh, reminds him that he is alive. Ice and snow clings to his skin, painting his black skin white, and tainting the white of his skin with a crystalized texture. He is a man of the cold, his blood running in Tinuvel and roots embedded in the ice there.

He does hate the winter for it’s storms, he welcomes them and stands to greet them. Black face turned into the harsh winds, the snow bites at his lips, and burns. Oh, the cold is so cold, it burns. The stallion closes his eyes to the claws of the cold, breathing in and letting the ice sting at his lungs.

It is here, at the edge of the meadow, his white breast turned to the sea, that he begins his stand against winter.

It emboldens him, awakens his need for revenge and his thirst for power. There is no one left to feel pride for him, and there is no one left for him to prove himself to. His family is little more than a name whispered by select few amongst the islands, and he is a ghost of mottled black and white. Scarred and ugly, now, not the shining heir to the Cove, and certainly not whatever father he had tried to entertain himself to be during his young adulthood. He is thankful that tooth and claw tore from him the handsomeness as was apparent in his family.

At least now, he was a sight to behold.

Leaning into the wind, there are great fogs of snow that lift up from the ground, swirling and bucking against the gusts and swirling across the meadow. When he does open his eyes, one blue and one painfully white, the world is white and the great field has been swallowed by winter. Ominous and looming, he hears nothing above the screech of the wind and the roar of the wilderness. For a moment, amongst the great scream of the storm, there is an odd silence that overcomes him, and he can see somewhere through the clouds and the fog of the storm a shadow.

A creature that finds themselves wandering in the wild storm.

“Come.” He speaks into the great din, his voice almost drowned out, and perhaps he thinks that the shadow is merely a figment of his imagination. A creation made of snow and the slowly encroaching nighttime.