(no subject)
Dave was a survivor, that before all other things. Before, in Fionavar, he’d lived through the war. He was there on Maidaladan, when Kevin went away. He was on the banks of the Aiden when his babies were killed. For so much, he was there, and for so much of it he had been fighting. It was a part of him, undeniable. All things leave their mark. But here, Tabula Rasa, he was marked, scarred through, and useless.
Somewhere, good men were dying.
His black was restless. It hadn’t ever seen fences before - the stalls and paddocks confused it after living its life on the Plain. It made a lot of noise, Dave noticed when he was leaning on the fence and watching it run restlessly through the pasture. It sounded like it was lonesome, and Dave couldn’t blame him for that.
“You miss your herd?” he asked it, feeding an apple he’d stolen earlier. The black made a nervous noise and let Dave spread his hand on its neck, resting there heavily. He smiled tentatively, and the horse sidestepped restlessly, frustrated by the fence between them.
“I could murder for some dried eltor, right now,” he went on, his voice dropping into a lower timber, more soothing than he even realized. The Dalrei treasured their horses, like men back home had treasured cars, but like the men back home, they didn’t name them. Horses were a tool, elegant and fierce, but the Riders hadn’t made them pets by assigning them names. Now, Dave almost regretted it. It would be a comfort to talk to a creature that had been named. In many ways, it would have been easier than speaking to another human being.
“Here,” he whistled, guiding the horse down to the gate. He’d ridden bare back before and it was painful, but now even pain would come as a welcome distraction. The black followed him, whickering with interest.
“They’ll come,” he rumbled, thinking of his ax and clothing, stowed beneath his bunk. He looked up at the horse, as if it were really in need of comfort. There was still dried blood clumped at the base of his neck. He flicked it away with the ghost of a grin. “They’ll be coming for us, eventually, you and I.”
[ooc: he's just about to mount up by the paddock. Excellent time to meet him! He's still very new. All manner of tags are welcome. He might even let you ride.]
Somewhere, good men were dying.
His black was restless. It hadn’t ever seen fences before - the stalls and paddocks confused it after living its life on the Plain. It made a lot of noise, Dave noticed when he was leaning on the fence and watching it run restlessly through the pasture. It sounded like it was lonesome, and Dave couldn’t blame him for that.
“You miss your herd?” he asked it, feeding an apple he’d stolen earlier. The black made a nervous noise and let Dave spread his hand on its neck, resting there heavily. He smiled tentatively, and the horse sidestepped restlessly, frustrated by the fence between them.
“I could murder for some dried eltor, right now,” he went on, his voice dropping into a lower timber, more soothing than he even realized. The Dalrei treasured their horses, like men back home had treasured cars, but like the men back home, they didn’t name them. Horses were a tool, elegant and fierce, but the Riders hadn’t made them pets by assigning them names. Now, Dave almost regretted it. It would be a comfort to talk to a creature that had been named. In many ways, it would have been easier than speaking to another human being.
“Here,” he whistled, guiding the horse down to the gate. He’d ridden bare back before and it was painful, but now even pain would come as a welcome distraction. The black followed him, whickering with interest.
“They’ll come,” he rumbled, thinking of his ax and clothing, stowed beneath his bunk. He looked up at the horse, as if it were really in need of comfort. There was still dried blood clumped at the base of his neck. He flicked it away with the ghost of a grin. “They’ll be coming for us, eventually, you and I.”
[ooc: he's just about to mount up by the paddock. Excellent time to meet him! He's still very new. All manner of tags are welcome. He might even let you ride.]