DEVOUR TO SURVIVE

SO IT IS, SO IT'S ALWAYS BEEN


The lagoon stretched out like a silvered bruise beneath the waning moon, its shallow pools laced with reeds that whispered in the night wind. Ghostlore’s hooves sank softly into the muck, each step sending a faint ripple that vanished almost as quickly as it formed. The air was thick with the scent of algae and the faint, sweet perfume of night-blooming water lilies. It was a foreign aroma, sickly sweet and vastly different from the pine‑scented breezes of his faraway home.

He paused at the water’s edge, feeling the chilled, silty mud cling to the undersides of his feathered legs. The lagoon’s surface reflected a sky riddled with stars, each one a pinprick of possibility. In the distance, silhouettes of the bachelor herd emerged - bodies moving with a languid confidence that only comes from years of surviving the mire’s fickle temperament.

Ghostlore let the night swallow his presence, becoming another shade in the moonlit tapestry.


Ghostlore

the wayward ghoul

noriker mutt - stallion - 17hh - buckskin fewspot sabino