In six short months, the painted child has grown strong. Once sloppy movements have become that of a well-oiled machine. Sunken eyes have grown warm and kind, much like his adoptive fathers. The boy had become a mirror of the gray stallion. Kind, respectful, quiet, and strong. He had also become smart. Days of playing upon Sylva's boulders, and amongst the lands twisting trees had taught him things. This was good to eat, and this was not. This horse would play with him, and this one certainly would not. His days often consisted of racing his father through the trees, jumping off and upon boulders (suitable for his height of course) and sleeping amongst autumn colored leaves. He now stood quietly, staring past the invisible line of Sylva's borders. Something within him wanted to wander past them. But something stronger than this urge told him it was dangerous. What lay beyond Sylva was unknown to him, and the unknown was a scary thing to the boy. He was soon to turn one. Something the child thought signified his coming of age. Little did he know he had so much more growing to do. If he were to become anything like his biological parents, he would almost surpass OB in height. But for now, that prospect was unknown to the bay colt. With a whispering snort, he turned, wandering off to find his father.

Rhysand

Istanbul x Krigare

non malum sit infirma