The Portal
07-21-2018, 02:33 AM
The going was slow before the storm; once it hits, Yves’ progress halts altogether. What is this stuff? It floats around him like flurries but feels like ash and looks like a swarm of gnats and why, exactly, is it fondling him – and only him? Is this some kind of attack? Magic is nothing new to the simple stallion, though he does not care for it himself. Too fussy. Find him a problem solved by magic that couldn’t be fixed with a little creativity instead. This touchy-feely onslaught has the qualities of a magical attack, but who is his attacker? As his brain cycles through the possibilities the bombardment grows in intensity, the flakes smacking into his coat relentlessly. They drive at him biting and hot and all at once. At first the warm flurries were annoying, but this? This was beginning to get legitimately painful. “Fuck off, damn it,” he growls, squinting his eyes shut to shield them from damage.
Within moments it's all over. The snowflakes settle innocently to the cold floor, peering sweetly up at the stallion, winkingly whispering, who, me? Yves isn’t falling for the act. He angrily paws at the snow, snorting and demanding answers. “What are you? Who sent you?”
Perfect timing.
Some commotion in the treetops catches Yves’ attention. He flicks his ears in that direction but remains focused on stomping the shit out of this snow - maybe the distraction is a trap, or maybe he's just enjoying what little revenge he can extract on these damn bullet-flurries. At the thud, though, he finally wheels around to face the source of the racket. The shouted 'hey' was overkill – what, was whoever this was worried he hadn’t heard all that? But he keeps his judgments to himself as he struggles to make out the figure of the dark winged creature under the glowing neon lights. Was this who was attacking him? Yves narrows his eyes suspiciously, squaring up in case they were planning a physical onslaught for their encore. “What the hell was that all about? You trying to fight?” He snaps, stomping a heavy hoof for emphasis but making no move toward his alleged assailant. Truth be told, he isn’t much of a fighter. But this stranger doesn’t need to know that, and the tough guy act is easy to bluff when you’re a big burly son of a gun like Yves.
Within moments it's all over. The snowflakes settle innocently to the cold floor, peering sweetly up at the stallion, winkingly whispering, who, me? Yves isn’t falling for the act. He angrily paws at the snow, snorting and demanding answers. “What are you? Who sent you?”
Perfect timing.
Some commotion in the treetops catches Yves’ attention. He flicks his ears in that direction but remains focused on stomping the shit out of this snow - maybe the distraction is a trap, or maybe he's just enjoying what little revenge he can extract on these damn bullet-flurries. At the thud, though, he finally wheels around to face the source of the racket. The shouted 'hey' was overkill – what, was whoever this was worried he hadn’t heard all that? But he keeps his judgments to himself as he struggles to make out the figure of the dark winged creature under the glowing neon lights. Was this who was attacking him? Yves narrows his eyes suspiciously, squaring up in case they were planning a physical onslaught for their encore. “What the hell was that all about? You trying to fight?” He snaps, stomping a heavy hoof for emphasis but making no move toward his alleged assailant. Truth be told, he isn’t much of a fighter. But this stranger doesn’t need to know that, and the tough guy act is easy to bluff when you’re a big burly son of a gun like Yves.
And the bones of small contention are the only food the hungry find.
header clipart: creative market
@Virga
