11-02-2015, 12:38 PM
Spring is welcome much more than usual this year, at least by Weir it is. The roan stallion of the Dale was expecting a child, so far everything was going as planned. Both mother and child were in excellent health, and Weir could not be happier. He had wanted children ever since he can remember, he wanted to be a part of their lives and not simply some man they called 'Dad'. He wanted to watch them grow, wanted to help them succeed in life in whatever calling they chose. He would do those things, so help him, he would find a way.
The russet male is feeling so good in fact, that he has decided to make a trip out to the Meadow. The first one in a long time; it's hard to enjoy company when one has the blues, and the death of his first child had left him feeling quite cerulean. As entertaining as that might sound, Weir did not deem it so, and he had felt depression was rather unbecoming of him. So there he was, meandering towards the rolling hills of grass and flowers, looking for simple or meaningful company. Either would do, as he was not very picky, and beggars could not be choosers.
Honestly it an unremarkable day but to Weir everything seems fresher, brighter. The bird song sounds practiced and sweet. The flowers blossom in shades much more vibrant than last year, Weir is sure of it. His amber eyes are bright as he looks out over the rolling meadows, a soft breeze flows through his red hair and he at once feels content. Slowly but surely the days were getting better, time was healing his wounds, and the world blossomed with possibilities. His slow gait is not so out of place today, here, because it looked as if he were simply enjoying a mid-morning stroll.
The russet male is feeling so good in fact, that he has decided to make a trip out to the Meadow. The first one in a long time; it's hard to enjoy company when one has the blues, and the death of his first child had left him feeling quite cerulean. As entertaining as that might sound, Weir did not deem it so, and he had felt depression was rather unbecoming of him. So there he was, meandering towards the rolling hills of grass and flowers, looking for simple or meaningful company. Either would do, as he was not very picky, and beggars could not be choosers.
Honestly it an unremarkable day but to Weir everything seems fresher, brighter. The bird song sounds practiced and sweet. The flowers blossom in shades much more vibrant than last year, Weir is sure of it. His amber eyes are bright as he looks out over the rolling meadows, a soft breeze flows through his red hair and he at once feels content. Slowly but surely the days were getting better, time was healing his wounds, and the world blossomed with possibilities. His slow gait is not so out of place today, here, because it looked as if he were simply enjoying a mid-morning stroll.