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in this quiet country
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for ahren.
word count: 350
In the short time he had been in the 'souls territories, Theodoric had found little to cause worry. His pack was (apparently) stable and the canines he met far less barbaric than he had previously expected. He was, however, concerned about the well-being of the shetland pony he'd drug with him across the sea. The use of equines as beasts of burdon had apprently not yet caught on in the Americas, and the journeyman weaver found he was poorly provisioned to look after the docile beast. Although he took and active roll in the care of the family animals back 127.0.0.1 in scottland, there had already been stables and hay and oats available; the farrier's and horse-healers ready should anything go wrong. Here, he had nothing but the simple array of brushes and a hoof-pick, and how he was going to get the pony through the winter he had no idea. Aside from a natural adversion to waste, Theo had really gotten more attached to the little horse than he would like to admit and would hate to see the animal die.
So on this day while the weather was still reasonable, Theo led the sure-footed pony down the slopes of the Ashen Mountain and into the territory of the Yawrah River. There, he hoped to find better grazing than what he had found in the Mountain Pack, with the dual hopes of reserving those meager nearby places for harsher days and in putting a few pounds of reserve weight on his traveling companion before winter struck in earnest. As it turned out, the forest was still thick in the river basin and it took most of the morning before Martin found a glade large enough to be worth his while. There, the fully-shifted male undid the lead rope on the chestnut gelding and let him free to graze - he was a stubborn creature, but would not wander. With the prospect of a dull afternoon before him, Theo unfastened his cloak, spread it on the damp brittle grass and settled on it, allowing his thoughts and attentions to wander uninhibited.
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