Soft snowflakes trickle from the overcast blanket covering the meadow. Not that he would know if other lands were overcast as well, he hardly ever left the privacy of the field surrounded by a wall of pine. His hooves crush layers upon layers of snow beneath him, making that soft rubbery sound when snow rubs against itself.
He is the perfect shade for winter, an unsaturated coat of deep greys and dappled white frost. Sometimes almost a blue hue shimmers in rays of sun, not that Beqanna has seen the sun in awhile. Not that he really cares to step out into the sun when it does.
He meanders, as he usually does. Though today, he is out longer than normal. Today he has walked in visual reach for quite some time, and it all has to do with the female utilizing his lone oak for her own comfort and cover. While most stallions would see this as an opportunity, Dalten knows it as a curse.
To say the least, women are not his favorite form of company. Lunatics, they all are.
It’s getting dangerous now, walking in the shine of visible, exposing himself to the many faces of Beqanna. It has been so long since he has opened the door to temptation, opened the door to conversation. It only ever ends poorly. It only ever ends in voices enticing him to twisted kingdoms and manipulated users. Conversations never end with a simple goodbye. There is always a catch.
The anxiety of it all suffocates him like an elephant squeezed into a box. The walls keep applying pressure, but the size of the box prohibiting him from leaving. Although he could continually round the meadow, feeling the box get tighter and tighter, he knows his mentality can only take so much.
And damn it, he is at his limit.
So against his better judgment, the one that tells him to find another ridiculous tree to seek cover and shade under, he slowly approaches the lone oak already inhabited by a mare. Her scent draws into his nostrils like the stench of a skunk. His nostrils curl and his jaw sets.
What stemmed this nasty hatred towards women? Dalten is not entirely sure. Whether it be because his mother was never around, leaving him to fend himself. Or because he had his heart slightly ripped by a young mare not too long ago. Whatever the case, his judgment has slowly hardened into stone. It’ll take hours of chiseling to break down.
She is a pearly shade of white, practically disappearing into the painted cream backdrop. She had a slender build, with spots of scars to show her journey. They all do, though. Everyone has found themselves tainted with bumps and cuts, and yet she still looks untouched and pristine.
“May I?” He pauses, slightly distanced away as to not barge in (though he truly wishes he just would). It sometimes is took risky to ask permission, sometimes it is better to fight for command, or simply beg for forgiveness. Though he is neither a fighter nor begger, and so he will just wait and ask.
