[Lepis] you just walk away from me

He never did like strangers, so why does he linger on the edge of Taiga waiting and watching the herd that moves within it? For a moment, he frowns at the thought, that youthful face contorted into a look of frustrated confusion. He remembers being in a herd, or perhaps holds slight fragments, that when put together are akin to such a thing within what remains of his torn, fractured mind. He was never sane, not entirely.

He has been wandering between the trees, sleeping under them, spending his days in their looming shade. The grullo has watched as the leaves turned from that vibrant green into a variety of colors. Scarlett, gold, orange. It is mesmerizing to his eyes of emerald green, but he has seen this all before, in the previous autumn. But for one who acts so much like a child, it is like he sees these colors once again for the first time.

His attention, though, is quickly deflected.
Focusing has never been his strength.

Thales walks the land, lowering his head to the ground as if he were some sort of hound dog, tracking down the trail of some creature to wraps his jaws around its throat. Those ashen nostrils shake and quiver as scents reach him. Familiar in the sense that Thales has been here for a period of time, but still, he does not have names for faces, and the faces he recalls are smudged and blurry, as if the photo was taken while the subject was moving. So the stallion pockets them, useless as they are, before wandering off into a city he no longer knows, but thinks he can remember all the same.

He prefers to linger in the shadows, and maybe it is this, above all things, that has led him to wandering around Taiga. He could force himself into the darkness, watching with emerald eyes, peering out from underneath those long lashes that, despite his grown up body, gave him an utterly charming, boyish look. He waves in between the trees, content to simply wander, but Thales hardly plans ahead or looks to see what is coming. Which provides him the consequence of squealing loudly with shock and fear as precise raindrops drop down upon his coat. He feels the slither of the liquid navigate its way to his skin and within a moment the drizzle turns into a pour and Thales is panting and rushing for cover underneath one of the larger trees of Taiga. His breath is ragged and low, fear gripping his heart. “No, no,” he pants, closing his eyes and looking out across the land as the rain piles downwards, soaking everything in sight. He hates this. He hates this. This, he knows. He does not like water, does not like the way the divers in the ground no fill with water making small puddles, that simply await him to accidentally step in one. He growls in his throat, wings folded tightly against his back, ensuring no part of his body falls from beneath the tree to endure the consequence of being touched by the falling sky water. “Get…away…from me,” he stammers, his fractured, broken words a struggle to force out. Ears flatten against his head when the rain does not immediately halt. Clearly, the sky water has not heard his command.

T H A L E S