his faith and his sin

The preacher was calm as he glided through the forest, the starkness of his body contrasting vividly with the dark trunks of the trees that grow on either side of his flanks and the thick fog that perplexingly swirled around his feathered legs in eerie waves of semi-translucent grey. His feathered appendages hung loosely at his side, kissing the ground softly with each smooth step forward. His twin tails writhed spiritedly behind him, their movements hypnotically synchronized. Power emanated from his thickly muscled body with each movement, yet he seemed undaunting and perhaps even friendly. It was clear the man was doing no harm, despite being extremely capable of it. The relaxed sway of his enormous frame paired with the long and low position he held his heftily horned cranium in screamed innocuity. There was mirth in his eyes, hiding the malice within with unquestionable perfection. The facade of purity and innocence he wore diligently was so palpable, so perfect, that even Yezdao believed he was such. The milkiness of Yezdao's eyes disallows others to know where he looks or what he sees, but as his cranium shifts to the right along with his gaze, it is obvious he has noticed something. There is a moment of breathlessness, the all-consuming curiosity of what presence seemed to linger beside him just within the shadows. The forest is dead silent so the momentary shuffle of foliage seems tumultuous. His ears swivel forwards, intently listening for another shuffle, another movement, another anything, but the forest remains silent now. Wasting no more moments watching the shadows, the preacher shrugs his ivory shoulders before continuing his trek. It seemed the Rift had a lot of mysterious sounds, and despite how much he wished the faraway sounds of movement were wanton mares or stallions he could convert (and even all the things in between), they were often just the sounds of vermin. The narrow path the preacher takes widens slightly, the trees parting further and further until there is a space where he could comfortably stand and even entertain a conversation with at least a couple of other horses. It was far from spacious, but it'd certainly lost the enclosed feel that would leave claustrophobes uneasy. His large hooves cease moving, planting firmly on the dirt and soil. Dropping his whiskered snout to the soft ground, he nostrils inhale deeply, trying to make sense of who or what had been here previously- friend or foe? As his head rises upwards once again, a deep nicker rises from his throat, out of his mouth, and through the forest- the sound ricochetting off of the trees, echoing slightly as it does so. The chords of this baritone sound are harmonious and beautiful, a rich velvety honey. The sound is a question: is there anyone around? ***