With so little purpose to direct his life, the passage of time has become largely meaningless. Days blur into months and months into years. He’s not quite certain any longer how much time has passed since the Tundra had been lost forever to the memories of the dead and forgotten, but he knows it has been a very long time. At least, to others, it would seem like lifetimes ago. To Hurricane, it pales in comparison to the endless expanse his life has been and will always be.
But just as the days begin to blur into one another, so too do his memories. Shifting and melding in his mind until he’s not entirely certain he recalls the order of events. And he wonders if this is how he had lost his memories last time. Is this what happens to the immortal? Every hundred years or so, memories are shed to make room for the new? Or perhaps it is merely the last vestiges of his sanity leaving him. Perhaps that is the inevitable conclusion for anyone who has the misfortune to live long enough.
And if he is indeed going mad, should he not be oblivious to it’s happening? It feels somehow a cruel joke of life if he must understand it even while his sanity slips away.
Or perhaps, he has merely had too much time to himself lately. The world holds so little interest for him anymore, and it had become much easier to lose himself in the skies, only landing on hard to reach peaks or cliffs where few could find him and none would bother to disturb him. Horses are not meant to be solitary, after all, but he has been alone for much too long now.
And so it happens that his wayward musings drive him from his self-imposed exile. He cannot quite seem to recall the last time he had visited here. An uneventful visit, he hopes, else it seems his imaginings of delusion are more correct than he might wish.
It is with skilled grace that he lands near a small copse of trees near the edge of the meadow, an ease granted only by years and years of practice. His pale features are stark, the defined planes edged with a harshness left by decades of hard living. There is little softness to him, nothing that might indicate any gentleness or kindness. Life is neither of those things, but even in the face of it all, he has never been able to find it in him to be callous or cruel.
Even now, at the very heart of it, he is just a man. One who has lived too long and seen too much, but honest in his simplicity.
quiet now, you're gonna wake the beast
hide your soul out of his reach
Hurricane
@[Ilma]