He has always been a wanderer, a vagabond. It was in his blood. Warrick did not necessarily stray aimlessly nor was it his intention to ever up and leave a place at a moment’s notice, but he was a wanderer in such a way that he would perhaps prefer the word traveler. His mind never truly rests and for that reason the bay stallion, laced with the indigo color of the night sky at his legs and mouth, finds himself scouring the farthest corners of Beqanna. This need for exploration and new scenery has made him familiar to many places, though he had yet to find himself where he currently stood. There must have been a certain turn that he took, a mere shift in right or left, that led him to the outskirts of Sylva.
As he draws deeper into the forest, Warrick discovers the name of the realm he is about to enter. He has never been here before, but he vividly remembers a mysterious mare in the depths of a similar forest, describing to him the grand, autumnal trees of her home and how they glow like fire as they stretch into the sky. He is certain that this place she described to him – Sylva – was where he was now. It is nearly dusk when he arrives on the borders, though darkness has already coated the area; the thickness of the foliage above him kept most of the final rays of sunlight from touching the ground. With the sun’s finishing light, the world around him bathes in a golden glow, dipped in honey.
Warrick’s soul was born gentle and he continues to desperately cling to that knowledge. He tells himself that he is still the young stallion from ages ago, full of adventurous wonder and hope, but the weariness etched on his auburn face tells a different story. It is becoming too much for him to bear, the load far too laden with unrequited prayers and pleas shouted at the heavens. He’s unsure how much more he can carry; he feels stretched thin and even frail, like at any moment he could simply collapse from exhaustion. There is so much veiled in his blue eyes, the depression nearly tangible if he ever decided to show even just a hint of his pain.
He is gentle. Too gentle for the grief that covers him, that drips across his mind and soul like thick, waxy oil inside him. But he is also strong; it was his misery and his alone. It will be his until the stars rain down from the sky.
Cobalt-tipped ears flick as the sounds of crickets as well as other nocturnal creatures begin to fill the silent woods. He stands, no longer exploring or navigating. He is merely listening, soaking in the quiet atmosphere as thoughts tumultuously churn in his mind like aggravated seas, in hopes that even just for a moment, they would cease.
w a r r i c k
@[Luster]