09-10-2016, 05:57 PM
Weir knows of dreams, both from lands make believe and real. He knows places and words and objects that others never would, that they perhaps could not ever grasp the meaning or notions of. Weir knows the real world, the human one, just as intimately as he knows that which is equine. How he keeps such an expanse of knowledge within the confines of his russet head we may never know.
The roan stallion is lonesome, meandering the meadows in his slow and cautious way. A pronounced limp takes his steps, one which had not been there before. One he had earned the misfortune of when he had come to the aide of the raid, when he had fought the Amazon girl as though he had no care of the outcome. But he did, he cared but perhaps not for the right reasons. Weir cared that Warshyshippy was safe, he cared that he never again be pitted against his dearest friend in the throes of war, he cared for all the wrong reasons maybe- but he cared. Is there not something to be said of that, even if the safety of a single friend was not worth as much as the safety of others in whole?
At times he was too soft for this world, yet he stayed, he committed. Once a vagabond, aimless, roaming and now he stayed, rooted himself to this realm, even at such costs. Weir had lost much and more, yet his family was safe, taking sanctuary in the Mountainside, resting their weary souls. He could not deny them the safety and comfort in that place but Weir for some reason could not stay put. He was the man, he had to forge the path, make a way for his wife and children so that they too could come down from the hills and find peace.
A cloudy colored rump protrudes from the snow drifts, pulling his somber thoughts to the present. Beneath the pristine white banks is a child, or a very small horse. Either way Weir chuckles, the first pleasant sound to leave his lips for some time and he finds his throat raw from disuse. Once he knew the joys of winter, that magic coursed through his veins with a passion and while he ached for the Magic of Christmas he was delighted in the game nonetheless. “Oh my, what sort of beast have I had the misfortune of running into?” he asked with amusement, stopping in his tracks so as not to misstep atop the girls back or head.
The roan stallion is lonesome, meandering the meadows in his slow and cautious way. A pronounced limp takes his steps, one which had not been there before. One he had earned the misfortune of when he had come to the aide of the raid, when he had fought the Amazon girl as though he had no care of the outcome. But he did, he cared but perhaps not for the right reasons. Weir cared that Warshyshippy was safe, he cared that he never again be pitted against his dearest friend in the throes of war, he cared for all the wrong reasons maybe- but he cared. Is there not something to be said of that, even if the safety of a single friend was not worth as much as the safety of others in whole?
At times he was too soft for this world, yet he stayed, he committed. Once a vagabond, aimless, roaming and now he stayed, rooted himself to this realm, even at such costs. Weir had lost much and more, yet his family was safe, taking sanctuary in the Mountainside, resting their weary souls. He could not deny them the safety and comfort in that place but Weir for some reason could not stay put. He was the man, he had to forge the path, make a way for his wife and children so that they too could come down from the hills and find peace.
A cloudy colored rump protrudes from the snow drifts, pulling his somber thoughts to the present. Beneath the pristine white banks is a child, or a very small horse. Either way Weir chuckles, the first pleasant sound to leave his lips for some time and he finds his throat raw from disuse. Once he knew the joys of winter, that magic coursed through his veins with a passion and while he ached for the Magic of Christmas he was delighted in the game nonetheless. “Oh my, what sort of beast have I had the misfortune of running into?” he asked with amusement, stopping in his tracks so as not to misstep atop the girls back or head.
WEIR
if i go crazy then will you still call me
superman