not all who wander are lost
Solitude. It had become Azael's dearest companion since he had found himself here, in these unfamiliar lands, just a few short weeks ago. In the silence, he reveled, simply watching, listening, waiting. And so it was on this night, too, as it had been upon the nights before, that the starlight illuminated the movements of the dappled wraith as he ghosted amongst the trees, the crunch of the frozen earth relenting beneath the self-assured press of his hooves serving to herald his approach.
He had never much been one for stealth.
Inhaling deeply of the sharp, winter air, the stud carved of ice and smoke suddenly sent his tall frame into an easy trot, long legs hungry as they devoured the ground beneath his hooves. The burn of the frigid air filling his lungs. The contractions of his muscles, taut beneath the woolly pelt of his winter coat. The sensation of the sooty tendrils of his mane and tail, so like the tattered banners of some long-forgotten warlord, caught upon the breeze, whipping behind him. There were few greater sensations in the world than these. The sensations of freedom.
But before too long, the stallion found himself slowing, halting, jet-dusted ears pricking forward atop his regal crown as he caught the sounds of another. Head lifting, nares flaring, Azael drank deep of the night air, letting it bring with its burning kiss the news of that other. A female. On slow steps did the stud then continue to progress, the elegant arch of his neck as he gazed through the trees speaking as to his Andalusian heritage. And there, just over yonder, did he spy that other in question. A little filly at play beneath the moonlight. Alone. Carefree.
Lovely. That single word pricked at the very edges of the wraith's consciousness, a whisper from his subconscious. A single flick of his tail was the only response the male deigned to give in reply, tangled strands of smoky grey whipping at his back legs as though in pursuit of some unseen pest. And there he stood, unmoving, unspeaking, eyes of sharp mahogany hooked upon the form of the little bay roan as she pranced, as she played, as she cried out and gazed upon the stars. Of course, that conversation which occurred with her other self went unseen, unnoticed, lost upon the stud who had no magical abilities to call his own. Nothing to make him stand apart from the crowd, save for his own determination, his wit, his strength.
Expelling his breath on a sharp exhale, the one called Azael let that misted manifestation curl before him upon the icy air before suddenly sending his body into motion once more - a steady stride, a purposeful stride. Closer and closer did those steps bring him to the form of the little filly until the Andalusian was merely a length away, surely close enough to study her in full. Perhaps even to speak. And speak he did, that midnight silence shattered with the very release of his smooth baritone from the depths of his throat.
"Child," the male began, that single syllable surprisingly soft as it unfurled from the lips of such a scarred brute, the faint evidence of his past exploits and battles sprawled across his pelt like a ghostly spiderweb of unspoken stories. "Where is your protector?" With those words lingering in the air between them, Azael lifted his head a little higher, that skull turned so that his right eye could properly gaze upon the bay roan in cool observation - the dispassionate interest of a truly analytical mind.
"Your dam," the stallion went on to expand, perhaps as an afterthought. "Your sire?"
He had never much been one for stealth.
Inhaling deeply of the sharp, winter air, the stud carved of ice and smoke suddenly sent his tall frame into an easy trot, long legs hungry as they devoured the ground beneath his hooves. The burn of the frigid air filling his lungs. The contractions of his muscles, taut beneath the woolly pelt of his winter coat. The sensation of the sooty tendrils of his mane and tail, so like the tattered banners of some long-forgotten warlord, caught upon the breeze, whipping behind him. There were few greater sensations in the world than these. The sensations of freedom.
But before too long, the stallion found himself slowing, halting, jet-dusted ears pricking forward atop his regal crown as he caught the sounds of another. Head lifting, nares flaring, Azael drank deep of the night air, letting it bring with its burning kiss the news of that other. A female. On slow steps did the stud then continue to progress, the elegant arch of his neck as he gazed through the trees speaking as to his Andalusian heritage. And there, just over yonder, did he spy that other in question. A little filly at play beneath the moonlight. Alone. Carefree.
Lovely. That single word pricked at the very edges of the wraith's consciousness, a whisper from his subconscious. A single flick of his tail was the only response the male deigned to give in reply, tangled strands of smoky grey whipping at his back legs as though in pursuit of some unseen pest. And there he stood, unmoving, unspeaking, eyes of sharp mahogany hooked upon the form of the little bay roan as she pranced, as she played, as she cried out and gazed upon the stars. Of course, that conversation which occurred with her other self went unseen, unnoticed, lost upon the stud who had no magical abilities to call his own. Nothing to make him stand apart from the crowd, save for his own determination, his wit, his strength.
Expelling his breath on a sharp exhale, the one called Azael let that misted manifestation curl before him upon the icy air before suddenly sending his body into motion once more - a steady stride, a purposeful stride. Closer and closer did those steps bring him to the form of the little filly until the Andalusian was merely a length away, surely close enough to study her in full. Perhaps even to speak. And speak he did, that midnight silence shattered with the very release of his smooth baritone from the depths of his throat.
"Child," the male began, that single syllable surprisingly soft as it unfurled from the lips of such a scarred brute, the faint evidence of his past exploits and battles sprawled across his pelt like a ghostly spiderweb of unspoken stories. "Where is your protector?" With those words lingering in the air between them, Azael lifted his head a little higher, that skull turned so that his right eye could properly gaze upon the bay roan in cool observation - the dispassionate interest of a truly analytical mind.
"Your dam," the stallion went on to expand, perhaps as an afterthought. "Your sire?"
Azael