[open] idealism sits in prison; any

[Gale]

Gale idealism sits in prison, chivalry fell on his sword. innocence died screaming; honey, ask me, I should know Leaves rustle in the dark woods, stirred by the wind that rises slowly, tied to his agitation but not his awareness. The flash of green catches Gale’s attention, pulls his too bright eyes to those of the intrusive stranger. The pale hairs of his upright mane bend in the breeze, and he shakes away the cobwebs in them that have been blown adrift by the wind that tickle at his cheek. Like trees beyond, her, she is young and slender, so easily snapped by a strong wind. He offers a twitch of his lips that is hardly a smile, enough that with the eye contact makes it clear he’s aware of her presence. And then he begins to turn away, because he does not want to see her. He does not want to see anyone at all. The tentative ‘hello?’ is met only with more steps away, the long stockings of his forelegs bright against his navy hide. Bright like the lightning that dances up those forelegs, that skitters down his sides and blazes in his eyes as he turns around sharply at her query. “The lightning?” He asks as it flickers in his too blue eyes, as he takes back the space he’d put between them, and then all the rest of it as well. “There is not a moment that I do not see it.” He breathes the words into the space between them to frighten her, to turn that hint of a whimper into a sob. Lightning flashes behind them again, and for a moment the near black of his coat is once more iridescent. He wants her gone; perhaps the lightning will make it so. @hysperia