like the sea, constantly changing from calm to ill.
As of late the buckskin has found himself longing for the sense of others.
Spare his mother, he has had no real connections to anyone spare the earth that regenerates beneath his hooves. He is fascinated with the fact that year after year, grass grows, grass dies, leaves fall - precipitation changes from rain to snow, to ice. These things are not up to him to decide their origin or purpose but he ponders them still; his mind is it's own hamster wheel. Turning, turning, turning until it one day breaks. Much like his mortal body, who greets the spring weather with many thanks - winter is harder each year he ages. He seeks the meadow because it seems like a place of neutrality, a place he is not so concerned or brimming with hope of war.
Being a sociopath is taxing when you're having a good day.
He spots a small black mare, murmuring to herself as she slips through some thorns or branches (he is unsure) and rips her dark skin - the blood. Oh, it fills his head and the copper scent makes him wish he knew how to smile. It overjoys his body, an adrenaline rush sends him propelling forward to her. His eyes, green too, meet hers - his more the color of light moss growing over rocks by a riverbank but pensive, dilated. "You should be careful, scratches can get infected you know," he says, though he isn't concerned with infection at all - he is simply drawn to that before any other feature about her. "Rapscallion, from the Gates."
He stands idly waiting for her to respond while he internally spins his wheel with newfound motivation.
.r a p s c a l l i o n.