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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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indent While his injuries had left Ahren unable to hunt as well as he once did, adaptation was a part of the genetic material of their kind. He had picked up fishing as well as learning how to kill with a sling. However, his goal was not to hunt small prey, which would not support his weight. For that, he had taken a trip to the city, where a few hours had left him victorious. A newly cleaned, newly restrung crossbow was now his prize. This hung over his shoulder on a rifle strap; the guns within the city were mostly ruined or gone.
indent He had been heading back to the foggy pack when a peculiar scent made him avert his course. It was one he recognized, and it was not that of a coyote. No, that was a horse. A sudden vicious stab of regret struck him hard in the gut, but he pushed that feeling aside. Ducking under a low branch, nearly catching his dreadlocked hair in it, the red eyed man soon spotted the source of the smell. It was not a horse, but a pony, as well as his keeper. Smiling faintly, Ahren made his way towards the other coyote, giving the shaggy pony breadth. “I haven’t seen a horse since I got here,” he offered to the stranger.
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Despite the chill in the air, the quiet lull found in the riverbasin glade had a somniferous effect on the scottish weaver. He had very nearly dozed off when the strong scent of another lupine stirred him back to full alertness. Wary for the pony's sake, Theodoric rose from the place where he'd been lounging so carelessly. "You're not plannin' to try and eat 'im, are you?" His first response was suspicious, although threat was absent from his thickly accented voice. He did not have a violent nature, mostly because he who sought fights ought also have a means to win them.
Being both observant and unhasty in judgment, it quickly occurred to Theo that neither the other's manner nor words suggested anything about plotting the pony's demise. "Wait, you're not from around here, are you?" By this time, he had noticed the crossbow and the dreadlocks - both of which were familiar to him. Hope rose unexpectedly in his gut. Perhaps this place wasn't as uncivilized as he thought.
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indent Ahren let out a faint laugh at the first comment, amused at the concept. After training and breeding horses for so long, he knew better then to dare attempt killing one. Their uses far outweighed the need for food. He shook his head, hooking his thumbs into the belt that hung on his hips. “No, I’m not,” he answered, managing to eclipse both questions with one response. “I used to be,” he continued, letting his gaze turn back towards the Shetland (which did not seem too concerned with his presence).
indent “Spent a while in Europe,” Ahren went on. “My family ended up becoming attached to a breeder out there, though he didn’t specialize in ponies.” Bowie had, in fact, kept a collection of many breeds, favoring the larger as the canine gene gave any able to shift a dramatic change in height and weight. His sister-cousin’s husband had himself ridden a Clydesdale, favoring the ability of the workhorse rather then its speed. Mab’s horse had been a mix of this and the Friesian blood Ahren’s mount came from. Of course, Saffron remained in Europe, a choice Ahren had not fully regretted until this very moment.
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apologies for the quality of this post. today's chem test completely fried my brain!
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The pony was indeed supremely unconcerned with the arrival of the other male, being far more interested in the filling of his gut than the inspection of another canine. Many years of domestication by luperci had dulled that particular section of the Shetland's flight instinct - another reason why Theo was especially concerned about keeping the plucky beast unharmed on these foreign shores. "My family lives in Scottland," he commented in reply, giving a firm identity to his accent. "I just arrived here a few weeks ago m'self, and brought him to do all of the heavy lifting." A bit of a smile - although the comment in itself wasn't altogether humorous, he found the fact that he needed a beast of burden to haul his belongings ironic. His work, his loom and his weaving collectively made up such a huge part of his life that he couldn't imagine himself without them. Even here, so very far away from home.
"A horse breeder, eh?" He was impressed. Raising horses was a complicated business, one as easily complex as his own. A thousand other questions bubbled at his lips. What part of Europe? How long were you there? What did you think? Why did you come back here, to this barbaric place? But it would be unseemly to pepper a brand-new acquaintance with a ream of questions; besides, he wasn't that homesick, not yet. "Do you have any horses of your own?"
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indent Scotland. Part of the small island group that he had heard of from Rurik, from Bowie, from strangers whose names had faded away with the wash of time. It was another name, another place, and it meant nothing. The stranger explained his reasoning behind the curious little horse, and Ahren nodded at the words. It made sense to him, in his experience. Tugging the rifle strap and adjusting the weight of the crossbow on his back, the red-eyed man spoke with a faint and unhappy smile. “I used to. When I left I couldn’t be sure I would be able to care for a horse and myself, so my cousin kept her for me.”
indent Backtracking, he responded to the issue of breeding. “Yeah, he and his family are apparently well known for it. They’re based out of Ireland and London; the Eachan’s.” Did he really expect this stranger to know the name? No. Still, it was friendly conversation. “Though when my family moved over there the business spread to France.”
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