The shadows have never been his domain, his preference. Until now, at least, he had had the skies. The openness, the freedom, the crisp wind and cool damp of clouds, that had been his mistress. His most devoted lover and constant companion. But that had been taken from him. Perhaps only temporarily, but it is a loss that aches. A loss that hollows him, so much like his home had been hollowed by fickle, powerful hands.
Still, his spirit has not yet sunk quite so low that he is entirely oblivious. Perhaps he is not so quick or observant as he once was, but even he notices the tingle of power, of presence, that shudders along his spine as he enters her domain.
For the briefest of moments, his lip curls, his dark eyes hardening to flint as his gaze rises to find the source of that power.
Magicians. He has never much cared for the lot, for the ease with which they bandy about their power and toy with lives. It seems there are exceptionally few who break that mold, who deign to be more than the stereotype so easily applied.
It does not escape him though, that he would not exist were it not for his magician mother. Of course, she really had been no different from the rest. Still, he would reserve judgement.
Hard eyes traveling the curves if teal and fuschia, he openly studies the small mare sauntering towards him before raising his gaze to find hers. He cannot help but admire her form, the elegant slopes and feminine curves. He is male, after all, and she a lovely woman. Even so, he is a disciplined man, one who is more than capable of controlling his baser nature (indeed, that he does not have a hoard of children despite his advanced age will attest to that).
The sharp planes of his features fixed in a neutral expression, is voice gravelly from disuse, he growls, “Did it never occurred to you to seek permission before prying?”
Perhaps, once upon a time, he might have attempted to be slightly more diplomatic, but these last years had served to strip any pretense of polish from his surface. Now, she is left with only the roughly hewn core of granite on which to sharpen her wiles. “You must be the ghost,” he grunts after a laden pause. “Hurricane.
there is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die
Hurricane
Oh goodness, apparently he has turned into a grumpy old troll :|