05-08-2018, 07:12 PM
the secret of our world is written in the stars
Deep within the cold, beneath where the willow had once bloomed glorious and wrought with green life, the stallion stirs beneath its dead branches, the golden and crisp vines scratching delicately across his broad back. The snow always entranced him, being born in the volcanic ash of Tephra, and it is no different now in his mature age. The sky had been scrubbed clean with winter’s wind, and though the white-capped mountains are hazy and heavy with clouds and snow, Hyaline remains clear and sunny. There is no absence of cold, though, and there are even clumps of disheveled and leftover snow from the previous night’s fall. Svedka’s skin shivers - honey gold and pale white - though it is in a comfortable way, almost nestling himself into the icy air.
Svedka’s breath tumbles from his nostrils in a plume of white vapor and it is when it has disappeared into nothingness he moves from beneath his wilted willow tree, no longer content with resting beneath its dying boughs. He stares out over the frozen lake (his lake, he likes to think), always enchanted by the fact that it will freeze over in the winter, where he once would swim freely in the spring and summer, and even late into the fall.
It is here that he notices something that is a bit out of place for his normal area that he tends to stay in. There is a mare in the distance (not very far, but enough to where he tilts his head and narrows his gaze to see her better), gold and bright in the midst of a white and cold world. She stands beneath the wisteria tree, where normally blooms upon blooms would spring from its branches but now is left bare, quietly surveying Hyaline with a gentle gaze.
Immediately he is intrigued, and without hesitation he moves forward at a light trot, curving his neck slightly. He comes to stand before her, his sudden stop in motion met with the spilling of his ivory and blue forelock across his face (which holds a breathless grin and sparkling cerulean eyes), the red-and-black hawk feathers behind his right ear curling beneath his jawline. “Hello,” he begins, chin pressing to his chest with a slight bob of his head a few times. “I don’t think we have met.” The heart of Hyaline pauses, surveying her again with a gentle tilt of his head. “Yes, I definitely would have remembered you if we had.”
A few sprigs of green and fine ivory dance behind his other ear as the wind stirs - snowdrop blossoms, to be precise - though they blend in quite nicely with the alabaster of his mane. Kagerus had found them beneath the heavy snow, sprouting from the ice in silent blooms. He hadn’t been able to find any gifts for her in exchange recently since winter had hit their home, but as his eyes focus cheerily on this strange new girl, he notices the gentle orange of a persimmon tree behind her. “My name is Svedka.” He smiles, feeling a gentle rumble in his stomach and when his eyes flicker back to her, his brows raise curiously. “Are you hungry?”
He does not wait for an answer, brushing past her without hesitation, delighted at the warmth she radiates as he passes. He smells strongly of sun and blossoms, of wildflowers and open spaces. The tree is small, covered with shavings of ice and melted snow. Gingerly, he plucks one of the tiny orange fruits with a soft mouth, turning to look at her over his muscled shoulder. The persimmon is shockingly colorful against the pink of his lips, and his smile is unwavering. He bobs his head, offering the small winter fruit to her with a stretch of his neck towards her.
Svedka’s breath tumbles from his nostrils in a plume of white vapor and it is when it has disappeared into nothingness he moves from beneath his wilted willow tree, no longer content with resting beneath its dying boughs. He stares out over the frozen lake (his lake, he likes to think), always enchanted by the fact that it will freeze over in the winter, where he once would swim freely in the spring and summer, and even late into the fall.
It is here that he notices something that is a bit out of place for his normal area that he tends to stay in. There is a mare in the distance (not very far, but enough to where he tilts his head and narrows his gaze to see her better), gold and bright in the midst of a white and cold world. She stands beneath the wisteria tree, where normally blooms upon blooms would spring from its branches but now is left bare, quietly surveying Hyaline with a gentle gaze.
Immediately he is intrigued, and without hesitation he moves forward at a light trot, curving his neck slightly. He comes to stand before her, his sudden stop in motion met with the spilling of his ivory and blue forelock across his face (which holds a breathless grin and sparkling cerulean eyes), the red-and-black hawk feathers behind his right ear curling beneath his jawline. “Hello,” he begins, chin pressing to his chest with a slight bob of his head a few times. “I don’t think we have met.” The heart of Hyaline pauses, surveying her again with a gentle tilt of his head. “Yes, I definitely would have remembered you if we had.”
A few sprigs of green and fine ivory dance behind his other ear as the wind stirs - snowdrop blossoms, to be precise - though they blend in quite nicely with the alabaster of his mane. Kagerus had found them beneath the heavy snow, sprouting from the ice in silent blooms. He hadn’t been able to find any gifts for her in exchange recently since winter had hit their home, but as his eyes focus cheerily on this strange new girl, he notices the gentle orange of a persimmon tree behind her. “My name is Svedka.” He smiles, feeling a gentle rumble in his stomach and when his eyes flicker back to her, his brows raise curiously. “Are you hungry?”
He does not wait for an answer, brushing past her without hesitation, delighted at the warmth she radiates as he passes. He smells strongly of sun and blossoms, of wildflowers and open spaces. The tree is small, covered with shavings of ice and melted snow. Gingerly, he plucks one of the tiny orange fruits with a soft mouth, turning to look at her over his muscled shoulder. The persimmon is shockingly colorful against the pink of his lips, and his smile is unwavering. He bobs his head, offering the small winter fruit to her with a stretch of his neck towards her.
(be my escape)
Svedka
@[Embark]