Nighttime, the hour of the dead. Or so far as he can remember, the hour of silence. Though, truth be told, dead things were also silent so Wyrm supposes the latter of the two statements is more becoming when one thinks of nighttime and all her mysteries. That is, of course, if you’re fond of the night and Wyrm can easily say that he is. It’s not so much the terror of the hour that entices him, more so along the lines that something easily seen in the daylight could be totally concealed in the dark. Everything about the night plays tricks - vision, hearing, intentions … all a matter of interpretation when the darkness surrounds you. Brave men's bowels turn to water quicker in the dark than anything Wyrm’s ever seen before.
But tonight’s not really that sort of night, given the fact that every star strewn across the sky seems to reflect its brilliance onto the snow beneath it. The Field is practically aglow with pale, white light, and the color gives a silver edge to everything it touches. Even now, as the oddly green stallion makes his way through the drifts of snow, it seems to add an edge he’s never had before when the sun is overhead. He quite likes it. So much so that it softens his otherwise strange mood and sets him straight on a path to a small gathering of horses packed away from the mainlanders. There’s three (he sees this now as he draws nearer to them, two had been covering a third from view) and they seem to be … recruiting.
To him, Beqanna seems to have changed very little.
“Mind if I join?” He calls out, easing past the dun mare and the seemingly black stallion to take a stance nearby. He’s left to face the golden girl who seems to be the fervent object of their intentions and in her, he sees nothing but hope. How … quaint. “My name is Wyrm.” He supplies, mismatched eyes dancing from one to the next.
WYRM
Offspring of Lupei x Zojja