Last night the waters had not been so forgiving as to give a warm embrace. The waves had been rather malicious in their intent, tossing around the sizeable stallion is if he were a mere ragdoll. Luckily he had washed ashore somewhere a tad bit more forgiving - a more tropical aspect of the chain of islands he has found himself stranded upon. Once washing ashore he too had shivered, longing for more gracious seasons, until his dark sooty pelt once more became dry. From his landing place he had trekked aimlessly around various territories with care to avoid stepping a single hoof over the wrong boundary. The scents of various other males had performed an unforgiving and relentless assault to the delicate skin of his nostrils, warning of each presence he would not be ready to face if forced into an altercation. This would be why he wanders this meadow now in a seemingly lackluster fashion, nose close to the ground and searching for fresh blades of grass hidden underneath the frosting of snow that still riddles the plain. Even in this vulnerable position, his deep brown eyes scan the area constantly. It would not do to be caught off guard, like a bird being surprised by the approach of another, and to scatter frantically in hopes of escape. No - he must remain stoic and perpetually ready, just as a man should be. Right? The noise of the waves releasing her from the depths reaches him before scent of her. His ears prick, sentries sound the alarm, and his head raises abruptly as the thought of nourishment is forgotten. He moves, limbs propelling his large frame forward in a steady jog, as he crests the small hilltop that had been a shelter from the frosty breath of the sea. His eyes widen as he watches her move across the meadow. She is bigger than ME? Intriguing. His continues at his pace, stopping only when he is but a horse length or two away. He releases a soft whuffing sound, a gentle expelling of air almost asking permission for his approach. She is the first living creature he has seen here, save for the occasional hare scurrying away in fright. His whole body moves, wriggling, barely noticeable unless she is keenly aware - he almost cannot contain his excitement with finding someone to potentially break words with. He gasps softly. One must say words in order to begin a conversation. If he were not such a dark color, perhaps his cheeks would flush with embarrassment and self ridicule. "Hello...I am Jack Dillinger, but most call me Dill." The deep tenor of his voice is not quite befitting of the frame he possesses, the gangly young stallion offset by the baritone of his words. He instantly wants to stuff the words back down his throat. Most call you Dill? Where are these "most" you speak of? This will be how she sees him now - awkwardly, waiting, wondering if she will acknowledge his presence.
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