Meadow

One ear flicks to the side as the hollow thud of hooves reaches him over the burbling creek, but even as the brown-white form of another enters his periphery Kendry's blue gaze remains unfocused as he stares across the water, so deep is his reverie. No doubt it is another come to enjoy the mild afternoon, and the pale draft's interest toward the other goes no further as he considers instead the series of events which have led him here, to this day— until the other horse speaks, his words heavy for such a balmy day, and Kendry's attention sharpens immediately on the fine-boned stallion standing across from him.

For a long moment he says nothing as he considers both the question and the horse who delivered it. The stallion is bay and marked with white, his lineage distinct but unfamiliar to Kendry: a face he's never seen before but likely will not soon forget. Distantly, a woodpecker drums against a tree, the rapid staccato of its beak emphasizing the meadow's quiet. When had he ever witnessed anything die? The turning of the seasons hardly counts, and Kendry has been fortunate not to know of the passing of any acquaintances or loved ones, and has certainly never seen someone die. He thinks of all that is good: fresh snow, the satisfying drag of teeth during grooming, the wind whipping through his mane as he runs, the heat of a mare's breath against his skin— the memory is jarring and he smells suddenly dark soil and loam, frost on the trees and a chill as if the sun has lost its strength. The black mare faces him in his mind and he watches the light leave her eyes as she turns her head away to stare stonily through the dense wood. It hurts to recall. Kendry's eyes flicker away from the stranger, then turn skyward so he doesn't have to see any part of the trees. "Nearer to now than I care to admit," he replies softly. Pain reverberates through his chest, both for the unwitting upset he caused while trying to make a home for himself and an echo of something else, something that makes his heart flinch when he tries to consider it too close, and so the white stallion leaves it alone as his gaze touches briefly upon the other male's face. "What of you?"

Kendry is unsettled by the memories the question has stirred. His eyes move away again and he tries to bring himself back to calm by focusing on the sound of the stream rolling through its pebbled bed. He need not linger in the dark halls of his head: it is bright in the Meadow, a warm day with a pleasant breeze and grass rolling across the level landscape as far as his eye can see. There is no constant touch of branch or brush and the company he keeps is of his own choosing— and he has been very careful of that, of late. He rights himself to stand firmly on all fours and shakes out his mane with a low snort. "Such a dour introduction," he remarks, trying for a grin and only partially succeeding. His mood seems set to somber. "Why did you ask?"