03-30-2017, 10:48 AM
My heart saw the things my eyes couldn't see
He has never considered himself particularly brave. Nor impressive. Nor anything special, truly. He has the gift of Christmas, but that is not unique. He shares it with his father. With a few of his siblings. To him, it simply is. Otherwise, he is merely a young colt with a rather bland coat of reddish roan. He is neither large nor particularly small, neither weak nor brawny. He currently displays the slender gangliness of youth, but in time his frame would fill out into a decidedly average build.
No, definitely nothing unique or singular about him, as far as he is concerned.
Certainly that has never stopped him however. He is a gregarious creature, and while his looks are nothing out of the ordinary, he is handsome enough. He would mature into his body, mature into that slightly devilish smile and fine features.
And so, in that particular way Fox has, he shrugs of the giant’s concerns with a grin. ”It is only because you have not been small. Were you small like me, I’m certain that you would consider it less than impressive. And there’s no shame in knocking things over.” At least, as far as he is concerned, there isn’t. Offering a lopsided grin, he amends. ”I mean, I knock things over all the time, so I’m pretty sure that has nothing to do with being big.”
Pursing his lips, he considers Hoarfrost’s last statement, gaze roaming the meadow, the horses dotting the expanse before tossing his head a bit as he prances along to keep up with his newest friend. Decisively, he responds, ”And if they look at you, it’s because they’re jealous,” with an abrupt nod of his head.
Perhaps that’s not strictly true, but semantics really. Even a giant needs a little confidence.
The conversation turning to winter, a favorite subject of his, Fox tilts his head jauntily as he eyes the frost covered horse he finds himself liking rather a lot. He doesn’t flinch or shy away from Hoarfrost’s touch, though his skin shivers a bit at the cool touch of his skin. Not from any true cold (no, he’s quite immune to cold), but because it is rather ticklish. A faint giggle escapes him as he dances forward, returning the touch in kind. Though he cannot reach terribly high, he noses the dangling hair of his barrel, feeling the chill of frost, the stiffness of frozen locks.
Withdrawing abruptly, he grins as the giant eyes the snow in confusion. With only a thought, he calls more snow, a miniature whirling dervish that coats the ground in glittering, beautiful patterns of melting ice.
No, definitely nothing unique or singular about him, as far as he is concerned.
Certainly that has never stopped him however. He is a gregarious creature, and while his looks are nothing out of the ordinary, he is handsome enough. He would mature into his body, mature into that slightly devilish smile and fine features.
And so, in that particular way Fox has, he shrugs of the giant’s concerns with a grin. ”It is only because you have not been small. Were you small like me, I’m certain that you would consider it less than impressive. And there’s no shame in knocking things over.” At least, as far as he is concerned, there isn’t. Offering a lopsided grin, he amends. ”I mean, I knock things over all the time, so I’m pretty sure that has nothing to do with being big.”
Pursing his lips, he considers Hoarfrost’s last statement, gaze roaming the meadow, the horses dotting the expanse before tossing his head a bit as he prances along to keep up with his newest friend. Decisively, he responds, ”And if they look at you, it’s because they’re jealous,” with an abrupt nod of his head.
Perhaps that’s not strictly true, but semantics really. Even a giant needs a little confidence.
The conversation turning to winter, a favorite subject of his, Fox tilts his head jauntily as he eyes the frost covered horse he finds himself liking rather a lot. He doesn’t flinch or shy away from Hoarfrost’s touch, though his skin shivers a bit at the cool touch of his skin. Not from any true cold (no, he’s quite immune to cold), but because it is rather ticklish. A faint giggle escapes him as he dances forward, returning the touch in kind. Though he cannot reach terribly high, he noses the dangling hair of his barrel, feeling the chill of frost, the stiffness of frozen locks.
Withdrawing abruptly, he grins as the giant eyes the snow in confusion. With only a thought, he calls more snow, a miniature whirling dervish that coats the ground in glittering, beautiful patterns of melting ice.
Fox
