Set
He's quiet. Pensive.
He'd sent his brooding son to search the underworlds for Frostreaver a full four seasons ago but it was only yesterday Niklas' hound had brought him news they'd found her.
Ill-suited to long bouts of inactivity, Set leaves the hollow he'd passed the night in (and many before that). There is no particularly discernible path he follows as he climbs the mountainside, traversing a narrow ridgeline before turning back north to descend into the Chamber. He winds through the evergreens, thirst in his throat and nothing but the caw of ravens and slowly pinkening horizon to accompany him. Winter isn't yet in full swing but the temperatures no longer fluctuate and tease; it's cold this morning, the deep shadows moldering with frost. As the trees begin to thin out, he picks up his pace, hooves drumming on the hard forest floor. No matter how many centuries he sees, he will never cease to thrill in pushing his body to its physical limits …
He is a piebald blur on the banks of the river, legs churning as he races the water to the center of the kingdom. A long time ago, he was young in both body and mind treasured son of Starlace and Chain, untouched by magic with the world at his feet. For just a few minutes, he slips back into that skin. Landmarks pass him in indiscernible blurs as he lengthens his stride, ears pinned tight to his skull. Breath keeping time with his impossible pace, bright eyes flashing with life as the lakeshore rapidly approaches. The lake is ringed in ice, the deeper center still dark, open water, but he does not hesitate. His feet barely touch the ice but it still cracks underneath the weight of him, the sound renting the air as he reaches the point where it gives way to open water. Before it can lose its integrity completely, he plants his hind feet and launches himself into the cold depths, a wild crow on his lips even as he disappears beneath the surface.
The lake has gone still by the time he emerges, on the far north shore as an otter shivering with the cold. His heart thrums with simple thrills, a trout clamped firmly between his teeth. Shaking the excess water from his coat, he moves toward the ever-burning pine, mentally embracing the ache of his earlier exertion. Settling down to his meal just close enough that it will warm without singeing, he grasps the trout with his front paws and tears into it, ignoring its final death throes as he chews.
He'd sent his brooding son to search the underworlds for Frostreaver a full four seasons ago but it was only yesterday Niklas' hound had brought him news they'd found her.
Ill-suited to long bouts of inactivity, Set leaves the hollow he'd passed the night in (and many before that). There is no particularly discernible path he follows as he climbs the mountainside, traversing a narrow ridgeline before turning back north to descend into the Chamber. He winds through the evergreens, thirst in his throat and nothing but the caw of ravens and slowly pinkening horizon to accompany him. Winter isn't yet in full swing but the temperatures no longer fluctuate and tease; it's cold this morning, the deep shadows moldering with frost. As the trees begin to thin out, he picks up his pace, hooves drumming on the hard forest floor. No matter how many centuries he sees, he will never cease to thrill in pushing his body to its physical limits …
He is a piebald blur on the banks of the river, legs churning as he races the water to the center of the kingdom. A long time ago, he was young in both body and mind treasured son of Starlace and Chain, untouched by magic with the world at his feet. For just a few minutes, he slips back into that skin. Landmarks pass him in indiscernible blurs as he lengthens his stride, ears pinned tight to his skull. Breath keeping time with his impossible pace, bright eyes flashing with life as the lakeshore rapidly approaches. The lake is ringed in ice, the deeper center still dark, open water, but he does not hesitate. His feet barely touch the ice but it still cracks underneath the weight of him, the sound renting the air as he reaches the point where it gives way to open water. Before it can lose its integrity completely, he plants his hind feet and launches himself into the cold depths, a wild crow on his lips even as he disappears beneath the surface.
The lake has gone still by the time he emerges, on the far north shore as an otter shivering with the cold. His heart thrums with simple thrills, a trout clamped firmly between his teeth. Shaking the excess water from his coat, he moves toward the ever-burning pine, mentally embracing the ache of his earlier exertion. Settling down to his meal just close enough that it will warm without singeing, he grasps the trout with his front paws and tears into it, ignoring its final death throes as he chews.