(no subject)
In a quiet corner down by the lake where even on this rather blustery day the water is still, Gil leans over the brink and looks bleakly at his reflection. Then with a sigh he draws his wand and pronouces a charm.
The tip of the wand travels slowly from hair to beard to furry flanks and Gil - oh and he hates it - does his roots. Every time he checks there is more grey.
Odd - he doesn't FEEl old.
Once he is done and is sure he was unobserved, he gets up, shakes out the kinks and heads for the kitchen, little hooves skipping, around the edge of the lake.
The tip of the wand travels slowly from hair to beard to furry flanks and Gil - oh and he hates it - does his roots. Every time he checks there is more grey.
Odd - he doesn't FEEl old.
Once he is done and is sure he was unobserved, he gets up, shakes out the kinks and heads for the kitchen, little hooves skipping, around the edge of the lake.