P. for Shaawchert butt
Silvano had already shelved the books in the little library he and Giselle had started. He could not reorder them anymore, after the numerous times he had redone the organization. The books were in front of his face and the dust was swirling. Perhaps it was time for the outdoors. Any more printed letters on fading paper and Silvano might lose his eyesight entirely. Rubbing at his eyes, the Sadira male lopped from the hotel, his gait long. The Court was still so unfamiliar to him. But he had spent two years, from birth, with the Dreamers that the Courtiers seemed so different. His heart still continued to ache for his family but there was nothing that he could do anymore about it. They were gone. Maybe he'd write a letter to send to them with the next outbound ship from Freetown.
He chose to go to the stables, much like the ones that they had back home. Heritage was not the only stallion there, but he was still a colt. He could not compete with the older males, who clearly had more dominance and superiority. Much like how Silvano felt. There were older, much more competent men in the pack than he. His ambitions were higher than where he could aim for. What could he do except bite his tongue and keep on doing what he did? Perhaps his books and his mate would be enough. One day, his own kids would fill the void, too.
Heritage ambled up to the man as he approached. A large apple was offered to the growing colt, who was starting to fill out his withers more and more as the weeks went by. It felt silly, really, offering such a thing to the animal, but the horse ate the apple happily. Silvano rubbed the colt's face, cooing at him with all his worries. Leading the horse to the stables, the man wondered what to do with him. Perhaps he should do some more lead training, and vocal commands. But Heritage was a clever thing. What was he supposed to do? Silvano tied the colt to a post in the stables, deciding on brushing him down instead.
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