.Terran.
It was hard to bridge the gap of communication with his son over the topic of traits. Terran had been born devoid of them - in fact, all he was able to boast (a revelation that had soon come to light when he was weaned from his dam) was that he had pension for nibbling on bark, or gravel, or dirt or hair or whatever suited his fancy at the time. His mother had lovingly laughed the odd behavior off but Terran had come to know it for what it really was - a defect. Some switch not properly connected in his brain that determined what was food and what was not had been permanently left in the ‘off’ position, so every now and then he felt inclined to taste things normal horses wouldn’t.
Unique, he wants to believe. It doesn’t stop him from hoping that his firstborn has bypassed that little hitch in the genetic code. “Well that’s good, I suppose.” The father chuckles, watching eagerly as his son bounds away on golden legs. His boy wants a race, so Terran will give him one. He rises, hind legs coiling beneath him as his forehooves strike out to slam into the shifting sand, sending the fine grains spraying around him as he bolts ahead at a gallop. The black could just as easily fly, but he wants his son to learn that being grounded was just as good as being airborne.
Over the dunes and out into the flat stretches of beach the two cavort, Terran making a sharp left so that they won’t delve straight into the sea but instead run alongside it, the foamy spray lathering their bellies and sides, drenching their tails. “Come on, Ander!” He encourages with a whoop, extending his gait until he knows the little colt will be tested. “Last one to the finish line is a pile of dung!”
I want to live, I want to give, I'm a miner for a heart of gold