It had been a mild morning, as far as the weather went. Still, the wind from the North brought snatches of the gnawing frost that would soon envelope the northerner's land. His acidic eyes, a venomous olive in hue, gazed to the peaks of Halycon in the distance - Sirius did not fear the coming winter, but the thought of it was enough to form his black lips into a grim line. There was much to be done before the heavy snows came, and the harsh wilderness of Salsolan soil would be the first to embrace the oncoming chill. The gnarled and dark land had been born of winter's bite, and it would succumb to it willingly once more.
Thus, unlike those who dwelled in the tepid temperatures further South, where it was said that snow only came rarely and did not linger long, those who made their living near the mountains had to be a tough, rangy people. Sirius had made sure, when selecting his pack, that they were such a force - Not easily deterred by the whimsy of a cruel weather. They would survive, as their kin and their ancestors had survived since the dawn of this era, and even before then. Some said that Sirius' very blood ran cold, and that he was born of the temptress of winter. It was not a rumor that the King of Thorns dissuaded.
On this afternoon, he could be found riding, as he had been very often of late. Although at first being mounted without a saddle had riddled his lean body with aches, the monarch had grown swiftly used to it. Using only the weathered black leather reigns, he had mastered control over his horse. She was a splendid creature, fashioned from the light of the moon, and this was why he had chosen her - For much as his sinful temper and wickedness preceded him, it was well known that the King had a weakness for beauty. Tempted by the lovely hues of her pelt, and her graceful step, he had claimed the mare and names her Chairo de Luna; Light of the moon.
They were beyond the borders that marked his Kingdom, and continued to head southwest. He urged the mare to a canter, which she leaped at obediently, silver hooves chiming gracefully on the occasional hard surface. About the monarch's form was his heavy bearhide cloak - A great weight of thick brown fur, that rustled and whispered about him like a pair of dark wings. The only other things to adorn his person was the usual strap of leather, to which was strapped a sheathed hunting dagger and a narrow-necked bottle of some well-aged wine, and lastly, the scars across his heart - Four wicked-looking grooves that ran from his collarbone across his pectoral, where the bear had almost taken him as it's own.
He rode for a short while longer, before tiring of the canter. The world sloped away in an ocean of dead grasses, which the wind parted like graceful waves. He pulled the mare to a snorting halt and dismounted smoothly, those keen predatorial eyes finding a suitably large stone on which to sit. Scaling the boulder, which was not quite as tall as his own rangy height, the monarch hefted his weight onto it, and sat surveying the surrounding lands. Although not tethered, with her black reigns dangling, Luna remained obediently close. Her silver muzzle dropped hopefully to the earth, where she began to crop at the final remnants of green growth.
It wasn't until he had opened the bottle, releasing a poignant aroma of well-aged liquor, that the mare sharply lifted her head. Small, cupped ears flitted south, her dished profile doing likewise. Reading the signs of her flared nostrils and obvious attention, Sirius followed her gaze with his own, pupils narrowed suspiciously. A figure was approaching - Blurred, until the form of a rider on a large horse became more clarified. Could the rider see him, sitting on the rock, or did they assume from such a distance that he and the mare were stone themselves? Dark brows, brooding like an oncoming storm, pulled low over those wickedly simmering eyes. The hand that was not holding the bottle slid to his thigh, and toyed with the dagger there, as he waited for the rider to notice his existence. Would they turn away? Many cowards fled North, expecting kindness and receiving only brutal reality. His black lips twitched in a mirthless smile, and to ensure that he was seen, one hand was lifted into the air and waved, just once. Will you come to me, or will you run?
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