It's amazing how different things look on the ground. Throughout spring and summer, Warstorm has done her fair share of exploration, flitting on nimble wings from this meadow to that forest, riding thermals over snowcapped mountains. She's flown over peaceful lagoons and raging rivers, soared over tropical islands rimmed by the clearest, bluest water the pegasus has ever seen. Warstorm has touched down in most of these places to rest and graze -- but only briefly each time, managing to avoid both predators and other equine alike.
She is five, now, fully grown and filled out, and enjoying her newfound freedom. No one was telling her what to do or where to be, or what she could and could not do. Not even her father. Warbird is as much a nomad these days as she is, though he tends to keep close to the fields and rivers. It's sort of nice, as Warstorm knows where to find her sire if she decides she wants his company, but most of the time, she doesn't. She's selfish in that way, but her entire foalhood was basically wasted by the oppressive expectations of others.
Still, endless wandering gets old after a time. Icy blue eyes survey the landscape below, mane and tail whipping in the wind as she flies. She is the epitome of grace, lithe form curved into a gentle bascule with her long hind legs behind her and her fronts tucked neatly to her chest, spotted wings outstretched to catch every breath of wind. Spending so much time aloft, Warstorm is lean -- and she knows winter is on its way. There's a biting cold in the early mornings before the dawn that whispers of the coming bitterness, and she knows she'd better spend more time grazing before it comes.
The buckskin overo pegasus lands neatly in the field, pink nostrils flaring to take in the scent of nearby equine. The field looks different from above, as does everything else, so she merely drops her head to snatch up the late summer grasses greedily.
WARSTORM
