Achille’s father is dead and there is nothing on this plane or the next that will reverse what happened.
The sky above Achille’s hiding spot churns with the ominous gray that only exists when a thunderstorm and dusk meet. He stares blankly as the clouds shift and sputter. A flash of lightning illuminates the gold swirling across his face. He merely blinks as a single, fat raindrop splashes onto the tip of his nose.
Achille is no stranger to bad weather, but especially now as his melancholy heart serves him more discomfort than the now steadily pouring rain. There was a time when he might be delighted to splash in any puddles or perhaps muddy his hooves; but as he contemplates how the rift his father’s death caused will destroy his family, he can’t find it within himself to sense even an ounce of joy.
Eventually, the Stratosian stallion finds himself aimlessly weaving through widespread trees. The noise of the pine needles crunching beneath his hooves is muffled by the constant pattering of rain and the damp ground.
Achillle closes his eyes often, too tired from a restless lack of sleep to care if a stray branch brushes his face. He stumbles over roots and rocks as the storm above soaks his mane to his neck.
Those often-closed eyes betray him when he stumbles upon a stranger, but all he can really mumble out is a brief oh and then sorry. He barely offers a passing glance before stepping forward to continue on his way.
The sky above Achille’s hiding spot churns with the ominous gray that only exists when a thunderstorm and dusk meet. He stares blankly as the clouds shift and sputter. A flash of lightning illuminates the gold swirling across his face. He merely blinks as a single, fat raindrop splashes onto the tip of his nose.
Achille is no stranger to bad weather, but especially now as his melancholy heart serves him more discomfort than the now steadily pouring rain. There was a time when he might be delighted to splash in any puddles or perhaps muddy his hooves; but as he contemplates how the rift his father’s death caused will destroy his family, he can’t find it within himself to sense even an ounce of joy.
Eventually, the Stratosian stallion finds himself aimlessly weaving through widespread trees. The noise of the pine needles crunching beneath his hooves is muffled by the constant pattering of rain and the damp ground.
Achillle closes his eyes often, too tired from a restless lack of sleep to care if a stray branch brushes his face. He stumbles over roots and rocks as the storm above soaks his mane to his neck.
Those often-closed eyes betray him when he stumbles upon a stranger, but all he can really mumble out is a brief oh and then sorry. He barely offers a passing glance before stepping forward to continue on his way.
achille
a little bit of bad thing never hurt anyone
but too much of a good thing
is like a hand on your neck