09-28-2015, 05:20 PM
Winter is a terrible time to be travelling in the Tundra. Those of the brotherhood have long since learned how to survive the harsh climate of the north, but those from the southern kingdoms are ill equipped for any sort of extended stay in their frigid home. And that they would come calling in the winter months, when blizzards are nearly a daily occurrence – madness.
Even Hurricane does not try to fly during a blizzard. It often means that he is grounded during the winter. But he much prefers to be grounded than to die a horrific death (could he die? He’s not entirely certain, but he’s also not willing to find out). Even so, he makes a point of patrolling the borders on a daily basis, despite the likelihood that anyone trying to enter the kingdom would be turned into a popsicle before they could even cross the wall. It is a habit, one he is unwilling to break. Besides, the exertion keeps him warm. When you make your home in a land that is frozen more often than it is not, you must be creative in finding ways to keep warm.
For the most part, however, he tends to linger near the single opening in the ice wall. If anyone were to try to enter the kingdom, it would likely be through that location. And though plenty of horses have wings, on a day like today, they would have to be feeling suicidal to attempt to fly in. He expects today to be as boring as any other day (given the weather), but he is quite soon proven wrong.
Surprisingly, a pair of horses emerge from the swirling snow, both trudging duly forward, their coats coated in ice. Hurricane himself blends almost perfectly with the achromatic landscape. His own pelt is as white as the snow crusting the uppermost layer of his thick winter hair, save for a few dark dapples on his leg joints and along his flanks. His pale wings are tucked easily against his side, the thick, downy feathers providing an additional barrier against the cold.
As they continue to slog forward, he steps from the blizzard, putting himself directly into their path. His dark, steely gaze flips from stallion to mare and back again, quietly assessing them. His features are still, as unassuming as the surrounding landscape.
It’s the wrong time of year to be travelling to the Tundra.
He pauses a brief moment before continuing.
I am Hurricane. What is your purpose here?
Even Hurricane does not try to fly during a blizzard. It often means that he is grounded during the winter. But he much prefers to be grounded than to die a horrific death (could he die? He’s not entirely certain, but he’s also not willing to find out). Even so, he makes a point of patrolling the borders on a daily basis, despite the likelihood that anyone trying to enter the kingdom would be turned into a popsicle before they could even cross the wall. It is a habit, one he is unwilling to break. Besides, the exertion keeps him warm. When you make your home in a land that is frozen more often than it is not, you must be creative in finding ways to keep warm.
For the most part, however, he tends to linger near the single opening in the ice wall. If anyone were to try to enter the kingdom, it would likely be through that location. And though plenty of horses have wings, on a day like today, they would have to be feeling suicidal to attempt to fly in. He expects today to be as boring as any other day (given the weather), but he is quite soon proven wrong.
Surprisingly, a pair of horses emerge from the swirling snow, both trudging duly forward, their coats coated in ice. Hurricane himself blends almost perfectly with the achromatic landscape. His own pelt is as white as the snow crusting the uppermost layer of his thick winter hair, save for a few dark dapples on his leg joints and along his flanks. His pale wings are tucked easily against his side, the thick, downy feathers providing an additional barrier against the cold.
As they continue to slog forward, he steps from the blizzard, putting himself directly into their path. His dark, steely gaze flips from stallion to mare and back again, quietly assessing them. His features are still, as unassuming as the surrounding landscape.
It’s the wrong time of year to be travelling to the Tundra.
He pauses a brief moment before continuing.
I am Hurricane. What is your purpose here?
There is never a day that goes by
that is a good day to die.
Hurricane