He trades carefully up the winding path underneath him, wary of the rocks that are not so firm in the ground. The setting sun bathes his back in a myriad of colors - red, orange, yellow, purple. A bright fire against his dark coat. Loose gravel spills from either side of his hooves down toward the small beach below. He has few opinions of the sea except that one must be in a certain mood to enjoy the salt upon one's skin, the cleansing burn it offers. But he enjoyed traipsing through the small waves that crashed upon the shore, learning its touch and will. Drowning is not his preferred method of death, but it might be an option when necessary. But he prefers the main continent, the solid ground beneath him (for clearly he is no sea serpent). So he travels up toward the cliffs, the sparse grasses along the edge grazing against his legs as he reaches the top. His eyes are shadowed, hiding any emotion within. His purpose so loosely defined leaves him open to do good or evil, and it would be a suitable response to fear that vague outcome. His daggers are too clean, his soul with too few blemishes. Anonymous finds himself hungering for a purpose to keep his mind busy, his muscles tense and straining. Goddamn peace. Short and sweet as always |
