He isn’t good at these things.
Let me rephrase that: He isn’t good at anything.
Socializing, leading, succeeding, believing—it all fell into his “weakness” category.
He walks to the meadow with a very unusual slug—it’s a pace that proves his reluctance to actually get somewhere. He was (unfortunately) a master of procrastination. He procrastinated socializing with his father when he was young. He procrastinated learning the diplomatic ways from his mother while he lived in the jungle. He procrastinated actually getting to the Dale for two full years when the original plan had been at time of weaning, you will go learn from your father.
He can also thank his lovely talent in disappearing for that one.
The mares of the jungle aren’t terrifying—or even intimidating, in his eyes. They raised him, they loved him, and while they were crazy bitches on multiple occasions (when their heat cycles lined up, it was traumatizing to be a maturing stallion), they were in most cases tolerable. He enjoyed their company about as much as he enjoyed the ooing of monkeys from their vibrant green vines. They got annoying, they got overwhelming, but they were always entertaining.
They (to him) are like the family a boy ensures his new girlfriend avoids. The family that makes all the wrong meals on holidays, tells too many personal stories in front of friends, and cracks the crudest of jokes around the Christmas tree. They are that sort of family to him. He loves them.
God knows he loves them.
And they mean well.
But that doesn’t mean he wants to go home and snuggle up on the couch with them every damn night of the year.
Within his deepest train of thought is where he forgets to actually pay attention to the real world. His grey muscular body (handsome devil he is) wanders between trees, a mix of evergreen, oak, and some foreign green thing, deep within the memories of females and heat cycles and monkeys flying about when the sight of a transformation greets his eyes.
A stallion, well.. Once a stallion, is now a squirrel bounding off.
He shudders—what male would want to turn into a fucking rat?
Does anyone else notice how useless that skill is?
A tree climbing rat.
And then, his gaze fades to his left to realize he wasn’t the only one to see it.
No, this beautiful woman saw it.
And…
Oh God. It’s a woman.
His stomach gets tingly and his throat runs dry. He feels this sudden urge to run away but then realizes that would be like watching a bull run from a flower. He is a strong, burly appearing male.
He must act like a man.
He lifts his head, his entire demeanor cool and collected, as he lets out a very masculine faint nicker in her general direction.
A greeting, or so he thinks what would be considered a greeting.
He hasn’t really nailed down this whole “greeting” thing.
Anyways.
“Hi,” is what escapes his throat next. Thankfully, the dryness is what caused his voice to sound overly raspy and dark, matching his charcoal grey-mouse coat and dark blackened socks. “I am Dalten.”
Greeting: Check.
