[open] slip into the sea, eventually. [any!]

[Chemdog]

Haunt, haunt, haunty boy.

He’s done nothing with himself; truly, he chides inwardly – literally nothing. Sure, he’s fought and won before, more importantly he’s lost. He’s laid many a mare, sired many a child, and some that don’t disgust him, even. But he’s done nothing... really. He’s seen many rise and rise, some fall, some stagnate, but they did something at least. And why is that same ache not in him, then? To constantly claw for more and more, always starving – why is he satiated and thrilled enough to haunt the black sand beaches of his Cove? Just one of the many internal ghosts breathing down his neck as he moves step by step down the dim lit beach. Should he be more ambitious? He's never really cared before. Does he now? Maybe. Probably no.

Autumn often drags mighty and violent sea-storms to die on these dark shorse and on this early morning one has come to meet its fate. The wind whips, but not like the deadly gales they once were hundreds of miles before now, and the rain beats, but only a fraction of its peak force. The storm is half dead already, its thunder simmering and only cracking sparingly. Its boil weakens until it’s a breeze with drizzling mist, the sea now gentled underneath soft gray clouds suffocating the day’s oncoming sunlight.

Chem stands with his bone white face and chest to the winds rolling off of the lapping waves. It’s cold, and by inland standards still quite windy, but not for anyone who knows this coast like he does. The stallion’s coat is thick and well armored against the rain and frigid autumn cold; water shedding from him like it would off a duck. His teal eyes closed, listening to the wind, the waves, his lungs, his heart until the rhythms synchronize.

CHEMDOG
to the window, to the wall

8

hi.
i have no idea.