03-29-2018, 12:25 AM
Since his conversation with Amanita, the idea has never been out of his head for long. Merrik wants to visit the kingdoms of this new Beqanna, to see what it is they have been left with. For long enough he has traced the familiar path between the Meadow and the Field, unwilling to look to the north.
Spring is drawing to an end, and the winged stallion has finally shed the last of his winter coat. He's probably left a trail of blue hair, actually, a sure sign of his travels north. First had been the Taiga, but the forest was full of shadows and silence, and Merrik found it far too reminiscent of the world of his birth.
Now it is Sylva. If Merrik is honest with himself, he'd started to canter as soon as he'd seen the golden flashes between the redwoods. He'd rather be out of the foggy land, even if it means sheltering under a canopy that is unnaturally colored.
Craning his pale head upward, the stallion stares at the trees overhead. They are as autumnal as the stories claimed, but the dark haired stallion is still impressed. With a flick of his navy mane, a handful of leaves flutter down from overhead. They drift down, all but one, which settles at eye-level with the stallion.
It hovers there, held by some invisible force.
It is the winged stallion keeping it there, that much is obvious. He has some sort of unnatural skill, judging by the rainbow of feathers that are tied into his midnight blue mane and tail. Red, green, and brilliant yellow, they clearly did not fall from the stallion's own wings. While the feathers there do come in a wide range of shades, they are only the same shades that are echoed on his hide - palest white to deepest blue and every shade between.
Those wings are held tight around his stocky figure. While he might have crossed the threshold and passed the border of the kingdom, there is nothing about him that suggests he might be especially dangerous. Merrik is not especially tall, and while he's surely built along sturdy pony lines, there's also enough roundness to him that it is clear the Meadow offers plentiful grazing.
He even visibly startles at the sound of someone approaching, jumping a bit. The golden leaf flutters to his feet as he turns to face the other horse.
Spring is drawing to an end, and the winged stallion has finally shed the last of his winter coat. He's probably left a trail of blue hair, actually, a sure sign of his travels north. First had been the Taiga, but the forest was full of shadows and silence, and Merrik found it far too reminiscent of the world of his birth.
Now it is Sylva. If Merrik is honest with himself, he'd started to canter as soon as he'd seen the golden flashes between the redwoods. He'd rather be out of the foggy land, even if it means sheltering under a canopy that is unnaturally colored.
Craning his pale head upward, the stallion stares at the trees overhead. They are as autumnal as the stories claimed, but the dark haired stallion is still impressed. With a flick of his navy mane, a handful of leaves flutter down from overhead. They drift down, all but one, which settles at eye-level with the stallion.
It hovers there, held by some invisible force.
It is the winged stallion keeping it there, that much is obvious. He has some sort of unnatural skill, judging by the rainbow of feathers that are tied into his midnight blue mane and tail. Red, green, and brilliant yellow, they clearly did not fall from the stallion's own wings. While the feathers there do come in a wide range of shades, they are only the same shades that are echoed on his hide - palest white to deepest blue and every shade between.
Those wings are held tight around his stocky figure. While he might have crossed the threshold and passed the border of the kingdom, there is nothing about him that suggests he might be especially dangerous. Merrik is not especially tall, and while he's surely built along sturdy pony lines, there's also enough roundness to him that it is clear the Meadow offers plentiful grazing.
He even visibly startles at the sound of someone approaching, jumping a bit. The golden leaf flutters to his feet as he turns to face the other horse.