OOC: Welp, here goes nothing.
@
Booker had no particular reason for heading into the mountains. They were there. Something to travel towards, so he did. Each day passed by the same as the one before: walking, grazing, resting. The only thing that changed was the mountains in the distance got bigger.
When the ground turned stony and uncertain, Booker pawed rocks from the soil. He needed to learn how this land worked. It was very different from the desert, and still dangerous in its own way. The rocks and boulders of this place were daggers, and a horse could find its death here easily enough.
The play of light on the escarpments were interesting. The trees provided soft shade and there was plenty of foraging. It was downright pleasant. Settling himself down beneath a tree, in the silence of a cool wind, he decided he could get used to this. Before the winter drove him off the slopes, anyway.
He decided to try a bit of painting. He was not very good at it, but the light transformed the land into something otherworldly. He mixed his colors and set up a fresh bit of paper. Settling into it, he began to enjoy the silence and solitude.
Until he heard a voice interrupting his meditations.
"Mother of Night, Benevolent Matron of Abandoned Children..."
Booker laced his ears back. "Tits on a stallion," he muttered, washing out his brush. He traveled out into the middle of nowhere, and there were STILL horses around here? Religious zealot, from the sound of it. Wonderful. The stranger sounded much too old to be crying about being an abandoned child.
Booker caught a glimpse of him. The most bizarre, twig-legged skinflit on stilts he'd ever seen, crowned with bizarre horns as thin as his legs.
He scowled through the branches of the birch tree. "Go home, boy," he said gruffly. "'Less you're some toothless foal needin' milk you don't need to be tuggin at the tits of any mare; I don't care if she's a god. If she's a righteous one she'll give you a good kick for bein' spoiled."
