paint it black; any

[Lior]

dark son of gunsynd

It felt like a closet door creaking open after being hidden from the sun. The light burns your eyes, burns your skin but you instinct to live keeps picking you up when you fall. It tells you to keep walking long after the blisters have wept. Lior finds himself in the field. All around him are throngs of horses. Big. Tall. Fat. Skinny. Mares. Stallions. Foals. Their warmth, their breathing made his jaw clench and his eyes squint tight to slivers. He is no prize amongst the living souls of Beqanna. The dark male is massive in height compared to the other field dwellers but his gait slow and methodical as each hoof falls in it's proper place as though mapped out and carefully stepping over landmines. Lior, dark gray eyes peer outward from the ragged fall of a dark forelock. The edges if his lips slip into a slight grimace to find himself int he field but he must start somewhere. When the soil grows softer and the grass more lush, the thick skull of the black male dips to tug a few shards of green upward. He chews slowly while looking outward and awaiting to see who would approach. LIOR