04-06-2017, 04:11 AM
The mists have cleared from their cache of hidden lands; lands that beg exploration and rouse a spirit in him that longs for the thrill of the unknown. Many of them have been laid claim to, and that is no bother to him - he is not after land and other spoils, just the long endless miles underfoot through terrains not altogether familiar to him, like the hills of cragged rock down which various springs flow and sing. It looks a harsh place, beautiful but challenging - one misstep, he thinks, and it is easy to break a leg as he maneuvers between boulders larger than he is. He has his father’s build; stout, muscled, tending towards a heritage of cart-pulling draft horses meant for plough and servitude (and maybe, sometimes war) rather than his mother’s spirited and unbridled feral bloodline.
Spear
It is there, though; in the set of his eyes and his roman nose - that feral look of a horse too long outside of saddles and fences, things that he has never known. The only thing to corral him has always been the bond between his twin sister and him, but Spark ventured out with him less and less. She had settled down as only one like her could, and that drove a chasm of separation between them because he lost his partner in all things wild and explorative. He had known it was coming though, since the first time they left these lands when the mists had only given a few to choose from and they’d gone away and gone apart. Spear had seen and done things as only a colt can, and he came back a stallion changed, thicker and heavier than when he had first gone.
Spark understood him less and less, too.
So Spear spent less and less time around her. She was too moony over that other stallion, Giver.
The bay overo stallion is traveling downhill, picking a careful path between the cacti and ferns that reach out to clutch at his feathered feet. His eyes - the left one red and the right one black, pick out the shapes of others up ahead on the hillside. He can smell that they are mares and unmarked in the traditional sense as having been claimed by another, but he shows little interest in that - well, instincts rise unbidden but he tamps them down as he looks over the little spotted mare with the bird feathers in her hair and the lithe black that states that she likes her. The little spotted one makes her own declaration of like before introductions are made and he assumes that now is as good as any to make his presence known, though he suspects they’d have either smelled him or heard him coming beforehand.
“I’m Spear, and I’d like to stay too - for a while.”
He gives a nod to them both of his big rawboned head, mane and tail blowing in the wind that rises up and over the side of the hill that they stand on.