feels like December knows me well
Plain, and unremarkable - the words are pleasantries compared to how he is made to feel.
A few months old, barely a boy (as illustrated by the softness of his features, like kisses strewn across the length of his shadow-dark hide). Youth clings to him as dew to the morning leaf, desperate and ultimately, doomed. The dread of it all reflects clearly in the grey sheen of his eyes, two moonlit orbs in the sea of black which dominates the rest of his body. Young though he may be, his size is that of a near yearling; recessive genes of great size express themselves early in the colt, and he appears visibly cumbersome in the too-large suit.
In all reality, the child ought not be away from his mother. He is not even weaned, though that never stops the hairless, careless woman from ghosting away in the middle of the night, or from equipping her flames to force him away from her side. He wanders this evening for just such a reason, utterly without a claim to purpose, unless that purpose were to be neglected by all who surround him. It's not as if he could ever be in control of that; fate and the tools with which to wield her elude him.
A sound nearby catches his attention, and he swings his too-large head atop his too-small neck, long legs splayed nervously as his eyes flick to and fro. His fear is somewhat camouflaged by the aura he projects across his already black hide, but if anything, it is more of a tell and less of a stealth mechanism. At last, the boy's silverline eyes settle upon the gold stallion not far off, and, figuring it is too late now to run, the boy approaches.
He maintains the aura as he treads, clinging to the one thing that would not abandon him.
"Hello," he said quietly. "I'm Arctyrus."
