From the daily press, the deepest nest, the keeper's keep.
He prefers the golden hours — the soft blush of dawn or the ruddy wind-down of dusk — over nighttime. He had found a great many pleasures and fun in the elongated shadows as a boy. And he had discovered more of the warm comforts in these hours than adventure as he matured, but night has never been his thing. Particularly. For many years, left wanting of many friends his age, he spent the early nights poking about, discovering the creatures that keep the nocturnal kingdom and watching stars under the tutelage and with the companionship of his mother. Then sleep took him to much greater adventures internal. It has its poetry. That is undeniable. And it has its certain romantic qualities. But unlike his mother who is indiscriminate in her love of all phases and motions — winter as much as summer; night as much as day — Trystane plays his favourites.
He becomes, as a result, rather hopelessly sleepy not too long after the sun sputters out.
Tonight is not terribly different. A grey autumn day, gathering greater and greater momentum into winter, had relented its post to a surprisingly clear and cold nightfall. He stands in the open, muscles shuddering some warmth back into his body, blinking up and through the screen of condensed breath to the still and bright starfield. Standing like this for some time, muttering the odd hello at the nearest of passer-bys or picking at some brittle grass, the young buckskin had begun to drift off now and then on his feet. Eyes blinking closed heavily for a moment or two (or more) before opening lazily to look around and ultimately up again. This cycle afforded him some extra time, and as his eyelids flicked open again he catches her moment. The deadened leaf meeting her lively smile.
He smiles too. There is something about this happy and small meeting of bare nature and horse that loosens something recognizable within him, and he walks towards her with some misbegotten sense of familiarity. “Hello.” He glances up at the wizened oak, the twisted branches and the clinging leaves and into the night sky beyond. They all reminded him of his mother, his childhood spent nowhere. “I'm Trystane.”
He could stay awake for a bit longer, occupying the nightly domain if only to send soft ripples into her quiet freedom, as well as his own.
first time posting with him ever, and first time posting at all in... I dont even know how long. So, I am rusty as all hell. will get better, unless I in fact can no longer rp ponies. tbd.
It is steep, it is stone. Such Recovery.
From the daily press, the deepest nest,
the keeper's keep.