Breathe in so deep
Winter was, as expected, making its way through the pines. It wouldn’t be stopped, it wouldn’t be slowed, much like the hot-blooded Chamberlings. Frost nibbled at the bark of the sentinel pines, refracting rainbows from the early morning sun. A rare display for the normaly dingy, mist filled forest, the sun unable to fully shine through the thickset towers. The pine boughs strained to hold the weight of freshly fallen snow, a sudden bend sending the powder across his head. White flurries rolling towards their fallen brethren, sticking to the dry locks of the bay stallion.
He shook his dial, unsurprisingly unhappy with the recent event. There was nothing to be happy about having received a cold dusting of frozen precipitation. Flakes spotted ebon tresses as he attempted to rid himself of their damp caress. He kept to one of many trails, those that slithered like snakes hugging the trees. Paths were beaten into the topography of the land from the constant clockwork patrols. An evergreen bush sat against the protective back of a large bolder, chilled winter roses blooming despite the dropping temperatures. They tended to do that, winter roses, blue as the cold frost. He snagged a single stem, the thorns biting at his velvet lips, he seemed to not notice. Thin blades pricking against his whiskers, a tiny bead, barely a pin-head drawing the warmth from his veins.
There was something about the crisp scent the wood took on during the cold months. He felt more alert, like the scents of the world were reborn over again. Everything starting fresh and new, a blank slate. All aside from the ingrained scents of his family, of his herd.
He would once more be brought something new, Engel’s womb had quickened for the lovers again that spring. He simply couldn’t keep his hooves away from her, and their growing family could only attest to that. He had been riled the night he had been gifted wings, choosing the scale and membrane flight tools of a dragon. They were the obvious choice really. Fireproof, they would grow large enough to lift his mass, and the scaled frames that grew from his back were proving hard to damage. He hadn’t yet used them, they were still taking shape, growing ever longer and wider. Iridescent mahogany brown, a green sheen to match the color of his eyes when the sun struck them just right. Each finger-like tip ending in a sharp talon, as gray as slate.