09-28-2009, 11:00 AM
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Jacquez Trouillefou was perched atop a fencepost outside of the Niobrara Racetrack, moodily picking his teeth and watching the scruffy herd of horses mill about aimlessly in their paddock as the sun began to rise. His own Rue, the little paint filly that had taken to following him around, was currently in the enclosure, flicking her little tail and grazing on the dying grass. She was finally old enough to eat solid foods, or so he assumed, since her wet nurse had weaned her from the borrowed milk. The small mustang was a bit gaunt for her size, but she'd fill out as she got older. It wasn't like she was starving or anything, just very active.
The tall Optime slipped down from his perch, landing with a rustle in the fallen leaves of autumn. Seeing the trees baring their branches, pleading with the grey skies for the onset of snow, it pissed him off! He did not want winter to arrive, not ever. Darkly, the one-armed man kicked a chestnut, sending it flying into a tree trunk with a hollow "thunk". How was he expected to deal with a Canadian winter, when he had lived in Florida most of his adult life? Wear sweaters like Ruri, or change his very pelt, like Firefly? Keep a steady bonfire going in his cave at all hours, and never leave it? Cold was disgusting. Perhaps he could convince a lonely girl to be his bedwarmer every night. But for a whole season, well, that was bordering on a mateship. No can do.
The mad king leaned back against the weathered old fencepost, his guarded black eyes flitting about the field. Come to think of it, how did the horses survive winters? Their fur was even thinner than his. They seemed to huddle against each other when it got chilly, like last night. There was almost frost on the ground, dammit. He ran his claws through the dark fur of his mane, huffing under his breath. He would figure this out. After all, he was the sun king, second to no man. Snowflakes beneath his feet would simply melt, would they not? It was not such a repulsive prospect. He would survive. Probably.
Jacquez Trouillefou was perched atop a fencepost outside of the Niobrara Racetrack, moodily picking his teeth and watching the scruffy herd of horses mill about aimlessly in their paddock as the sun began to rise. His own Rue, the little paint filly that had taken to following him around, was currently in the enclosure, flicking her little tail and grazing on the dying grass. She was finally old enough to eat solid foods, or so he assumed, since her wet nurse had weaned her from the borrowed milk. The small mustang was a bit gaunt for her size, but she'd fill out as she got older. It wasn't like she was starving or anything, just very active.
The tall Optime slipped down from his perch, landing with a rustle in the fallen leaves of autumn. Seeing the trees baring their branches, pleading with the grey skies for the onset of snow, it pissed him off! He did not want winter to arrive, not ever. Darkly, the one-armed man kicked a chestnut, sending it flying into a tree trunk with a hollow "thunk". How was he expected to deal with a Canadian winter, when he had lived in Florida most of his adult life? Wear sweaters like Ruri, or change his very pelt, like Firefly? Keep a steady bonfire going in his cave at all hours, and never leave it? Cold was disgusting. Perhaps he could convince a lonely girl to be his bedwarmer every night. But for a whole season, well, that was bordering on a mateship. No can do.
The mad king leaned back against the weathered old fencepost, his guarded black eyes flitting about the field. Come to think of it, how did the horses survive winters? Their fur was even thinner than his. They seemed to huddle against each other when it got chilly, like last night. There was almost frost on the ground, dammit. He ran his claws through the dark fur of his mane, huffing under his breath. He would figure this out. After all, he was the sun king, second to no man. Snowflakes beneath his feet would simply melt, would they not? It was not such a repulsive prospect. He would survive. Probably.