The sun upon his face was unpleasantly warm, when it stole him away from his dreams of that very same, radiant orb which now caused sweat to accumulate along the folds of his body, despite the season, now that it had risen to its fullest potential.
The second thing which Stavros took note of as he roused from unconsciousness to the realm of the waking was that he was laying upon his side, rather than upright, as he usually slept, and that some sort of shrub was gently brushing against his back, seemingly tousled by the wind. Wondering if he had instead given into the weariness of his ceaseless, pointless travels, and collapsed wherever here was, the stallion does not bother to open his eyes. Instead, he simply unleashes a long, sorrowful sigh, which disturbs the sand at his muzzle and sends it curling in playful, dusty plumes away from his gold-dipped face; his tail, long with a short, well kept tuft of hair upon its end, casually lifts itself from the ground behind him, and is gently laid over his side.
He cannot recall if he had fainted or not, but he alleged it was likely. A groan escapes his lips as he forces his indigo eyes open to behold the desert and the shrub beneath which he partially lays, one that becomes worried in tone as he recalls walking through a cypress wood, not a desert at all. The dream of the sun lingers in his mind as he takes note of his surroundings through blinks and the narrowed frame of his snowy lashes, and with absolute concern writ upon his weary features, the gold dappled stallion quickly rises to his hooves.
The morning sun spills over a sandstone wall that towers overhead, its corners marked by towers, and the sea is a distant, blue line on the horizon in almost every direction in which the dunes of a desert do not obscure it. Having apparently lain in the structure’s shade until just moments ago, Stavros had been roused by the sun’s vantage having gained enough height to cast the patch of desert in which the stallion finds himself in full, golden glory. Shaking his head to try and rid himself of the mirage (surely, he would remember seeing such a sight, and certainly he would recall that he’d come upon a desert, no matter how beleaguered he had been before feinting), the somber warrior is all the more confounded and worried when it doesn’t dissipate at all.
Not far from where he lays is what appears to be a gateway; lifting himself from the sand and shaking away what of it he can, the stallion adjusts his white chiton and trots towards the inherent doorway to civilization. Halting some feet from the threshold, his ears perked upwards and his gaunt body looking odd and narrow beneath the layers of his cloth covering, the unusually dirty man looks about for some sign of a sentry, or anyone, really. Believing he hears someone arriving, the man clears his throat and pivots his head in the direction of the sound, before calling out:
"Hello?" questions the pale stallion of the unseen hoof beats; prepared to fight if he must, the aged and rather road-wearied warrior was also not sure he presently had it in him.
Someone to welcome him would be lovely <3
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