He might have chosen any number of places to come to rest, but he had chosen here. He cannot say why, nor did he particularly care to. He has never placed much stock in the imaginings of fate. Life is what one makes of it. Of course, when one lives as long as he, it seems one could make and re-make it as many times as they wished.
After a while, it grows far too easy to lose the appeal and wonder of such things.
Still, he had chosen the meadow, and regardless of his desire (or lack thereof) to dwell on the why of it, he had chosen it for a reason. It is a busy place. One in which hiding is difficult and ignoring the world even more so. Most who come here seek company, or whatever version of that they actually desire. Even he, in the end, seeks the same. Perhaps he might not wish it (not after so long alone), but he certainly needs it.
He has seen it too many times to count, just how dangerous remaining alone too long is. For all his recalcitrance, he has little desire to spend the rest of the days wrapped in the prison of his own mind.
As he peers aimlessly around him, his dark gaze falters on the pale mare nearby. Her attention had been drawn by his landing, but though their gazes catch for an impossibly brief span of time, she makes no move to approach. It has been a long time since Hurricane had sought companionship, and for a moment, the mechanics of it are nearly forgotten. The recalled understanding that one must appear approachable, offer conversation even, slow in coming.
He has never been a master of schooling his features. The harsh edges had long ago been etched eternally into his pale skin, the steely darkness of his eyes nearly unchangeable. He has lost the ability to soften any part of himself, to adopt the friendliness most seem to seek here. Still, though it has been some time since he used it, he has at least not lost his voice.
“Hello,” he greets, his voice gritty and rough from disuse. He says nothing else, as though he’s quite forgotten how such things work. Perhaps he could stumble through some approximation of a friendly approach, but he rather thinks it wouldn’t come off as anything close to approachable. He had broken the silence. Perhaps this would be the beginning of something more, or perhaps it would simply be a passing nod between two strangers. Regardless, he would leave that decision to her.
quiet now, you're gonna wake the beast
hide your soul out of his reach
Hurricane