I don't care about sunny days.

I've got myself trapped in the black of your heart

Amidst the rain and thunder, the lone traveller heard a call echo through the wood. White-rimmed ears swivelled with uncertainty as they attempted to locate the direction of the voice. He had not encountered another soul in who-knows-how-long, and justifiably felt a bit wary to meet anyone who haunted dark forests in the night, conveniently forgetting that this stranger may very well think the same thing about him. For a moment, he wondered if he should even reply; however, it occurred to him that whomever had called out already sensed his presence, so it was useless (or even dangerous) to feign ignorance. Perhaps he was being cynical, or even worse--paranoid. Why should he assume that anyone doing the exact same thing as he was doing had ill intentions? Plus, if they sought to harm him, why would they be making their presence known in such a conspicuous manner?

With purposeful indiscretion, Lohengrin snorted out rainwater from his nostrils. He paused once more, trying to discern the stranger from the hundreds of little lights that dotted the shadows. After a moment of squinting into the night, he caught a shadow much bigger than the others--so big in fact that it seemed to loom over him. Now, although the traveller had seen his fair share of years and had walked more miles than nearly anyone he knew, but in all the miles his hooves had covered and all the cities he had once prowled, he had only met four beasts larger than himself: his three brothers, and a legendary gladiator in the Fighting Pits who they called the Mountain, but only in whispers. All four of these creatures had beaten him smartly in combat, and when he had fought with the latter, he had nearly lost his life. With this fact in mind, Lohengrin eyed the shadow warily, tensed muscles tracing taut lines beneath his wet skin, ready to fight or flee or what-have-you.

In case the stranger had not heard him, Lohengrin called out into the night. "Hail," he replied, doubting that his hoarse, barely used voice was any match for the summer storm that raged on about them. He couldn't remember the last time that he had spoken to anyone; perhaps it was better that way.