Willfur
Maybe not crazy, but definitely rude.
All the red mule can do is sigh and lay his ears back. The antlered stallion reminds him too much of long ago, mid-pubescent squabbling, his flamboyant behavior in sharp contrast to the accompanying attitude of forced carelessness, one screaming 'Look at me! Look at me!' while the other insists he only wants to be left alone. It grates on the hybrid, tasting of dishonesty and petulance and bringing with it a familiar, bone wearying fatigue that only seems to be relieved in the quiet of isolation and even then, only temporarily.
"I didn't mean-", He wants to defend himself, point out the
"I'm going to the Dawn Court." He snaps, unable to keep annoyance and hurt feelings from his voice. "I've heard they have an impressive library, so I was looking for a safe way to-" Again he's cut short, the brown and auburn velvet of his muzzle twisting tightly closed, hardening now where so often it lays soft and amiable.
Is he being too sensitive?
He knows - he really does - that he shouldn't be so easily riled, that a reaction is exactly what these types of characters are looking for, but he can't quite stop himself from correcting, "It's Willfur."
He finds himself seething; As if thirty seconds is too long to remember a name. As if its owner is of so little consequence that the insult in
It takes strength to be gentle.
"I'll be back." He mumbles, tossing the words over one shoulder as he turns, jogging away. He's let the road wear him out, that's all. The days and weeks of travel have frayed his nerves. A little willow bark for his own aches and strains might not be poorly received, either. It takes a lot of effort to move 1200 pounds of flesh and bone across such large distances. Novus is a sprawling realm of every topographical type and feature imaginable, it's no wonder he's gotten irritable.
Just a few miles upstream he finds the long, hanging ribbons of green he's looking for and indulges himself for a moment under their sheltering curtain, breathing in the fresh, moist scent and letting any residual heat of emotion drain from him.
He was being too sensitive, he decides.
And for what? He wonders, carefully peeling a section of bark away from the Willow. He takes only small segments and is careful to strip only the upper portions of the trunk, stretching his neck up to where he reasons fewer insects, bacteria, and other opportunistic animals will be able to reach and further damage the trees inner layers, tucking his gatherings into the small leather bag at his left shoulder.
With a mouthful neatly stacked in his bag and another tucked into one cheek for himself, he breathes, "That should be enough. Thank you."
He does feel significantly better by the time he returns to the little stallion, though whether it's the salicin in the bark, or the benefits of personal reflection, he can't fairly say. Perhaps they just work best in tandem. Either way, he's able to smile now, and gingerly sets the measure of bark between Ezital's knees, all his ill humor gone.
"Here. Chew on this. It'll help."
@Ezital <3
