DALTEN
THINKING OF YOU IS A POISON I DRINK OFTEN
He had aged, you could see it in the softness of the skin around his eyes and the elegance in how he carried himself. A true gentleman, with delicately chiseled muscle tone and calmly placed dapples across his shoulders and rib line before petering out at the tops of his hindquarters.
He carefully weaves in between fallen logs and oddly placed pines, working his way to the corridor which mirrored the river before landing a solitary spot off the bank where rocks had rolled and left sand reminisce in its place.
Dalten hasn’t aged much beyond his stiffer-morning ligaments and softness of skin around his eyes, however. No, he is still handsome in a restored-but-distressed sort of way, for the type who like dirtied hands and a few too many scars. Or for those who value antiques over the new and shiny.
He pulls to a halt at the river edge, teasing the bank line with the tips of his brown hooves. The water ran fast past him in a fit of rage to fall down the waterfall thousands of yards beyond his site. He couldn’t put his finger on which kingdom harbored the breathtaking waterfalls, or if a kingdom did harbor the waterfalls at all, anymore. It had been so long, and his memory had blurred.
As he lowers his head to drink, he hears the soft crack of a tree branch behind him. Curiously, he peers to his left, awaiting with strands of navy and greyish-blue dangling across his forehead. Awaiting the appearance of a stranger to follow the noise, wondering if the company of Beqanna had changed at all in his absence. Would he be an outcast? Or would he blend in like the fur of a rabbit in the dead of winter.