Post by cicadanoise on Oct 5, 2006 21:40:14 GMT -5
{Just a note - please don't mistake Splendor's rudeness for n00ish behavior on my part. XD I'm quite aware that I risk getting him run off.}
He hadn't been this deep into the mountains for a long time - not since he'd been a colt at his mother's side. It was claimed territory, and Splendor knew that perfectly well; but he was tired of the in-between lands of the bachelor herds. He was too old for that. Eight summers was too long a time to be herdless.
His large hooves clicked over the rocky deer trails that led up the slopes. Every now and then the big stallion would stop and look around, scenting the wind with a curled lip. He could smell other horses when the wind's direction changed, but he couldn't see them yet.
He hadn't actually decided what to do when he did meet the resident herd. He didn't know the lead stallion, and wanted to see what sort of creature he was. If it was a rash young thing, or an old horse coming to the natural end of his reign, Splendor would do the only logical thing for a healthy stallion - try to take his land and his mares. But he wasn't a fool, and wouldn't fight if he wasn't certain that his chances of winning were decent.
In that respect, of course, Splendor had a lot going for him. He was in good health, after a summer of feeding on green shoots and good grass. Though his short summer coat showed plenty of battle scars, none of them had caused any severe or lasting injury. He was sure-footed. And, most notably, he was big. No true mustang stood 16 hands high - his slightly feathered hocks and strong, muscular frame showed some workhorse blood, probably Shire, though it had clearly entered his line several generations back and been diluted.
His full name, Silver Splendor, fit him well. Compared to the rugged mustangs, he was impressive, though of course he might look scruffy and ill-bred to a horse with cultivated bloodlines. His coat was dappled grey, his mane and tail almost black, and clearly they had never been trimmed or brushed. Splendor had only one white sock, on his front forefoot; a jagged streak of white started just between his eyes and ran down his muzzle like a stripe of paint left by a careless painter.
Coming to a level outcrop from which he could hear the distant whinnies of other horses, Splendor raised his head and neighed back to them, announcing himself without question or greeting. He wasn't asking to enter this territory - he was already in it.
He hadn't been this deep into the mountains for a long time - not since he'd been a colt at his mother's side. It was claimed territory, and Splendor knew that perfectly well; but he was tired of the in-between lands of the bachelor herds. He was too old for that. Eight summers was too long a time to be herdless.
His large hooves clicked over the rocky deer trails that led up the slopes. Every now and then the big stallion would stop and look around, scenting the wind with a curled lip. He could smell other horses when the wind's direction changed, but he couldn't see them yet.
He hadn't actually decided what to do when he did meet the resident herd. He didn't know the lead stallion, and wanted to see what sort of creature he was. If it was a rash young thing, or an old horse coming to the natural end of his reign, Splendor would do the only logical thing for a healthy stallion - try to take his land and his mares. But he wasn't a fool, and wouldn't fight if he wasn't certain that his chances of winning were decent.
In that respect, of course, Splendor had a lot going for him. He was in good health, after a summer of feeding on green shoots and good grass. Though his short summer coat showed plenty of battle scars, none of them had caused any severe or lasting injury. He was sure-footed. And, most notably, he was big. No true mustang stood 16 hands high - his slightly feathered hocks and strong, muscular frame showed some workhorse blood, probably Shire, though it had clearly entered his line several generations back and been diluted.
His full name, Silver Splendor, fit him well. Compared to the rugged mustangs, he was impressive, though of course he might look scruffy and ill-bred to a horse with cultivated bloodlines. His coat was dappled grey, his mane and tail almost black, and clearly they had never been trimmed or brushed. Splendor had only one white sock, on his front forefoot; a jagged streak of white started just between his eyes and ran down his muzzle like a stripe of paint left by a careless painter.
Coming to a level outcrop from which he could hear the distant whinnies of other horses, Splendor raised his head and neighed back to them, announcing himself without question or greeting. He wasn't asking to enter this territory - he was already in it.
