❝⌘▁𝐞𝐥𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐚𝐧 𝐟𝐢𝐞𝐥𝐝𝐬 - o p e n !

[lynettetan1]

Spectre
10 Years Old~Jotunheim King
Mentions: The Jotunheim herd
Tagged: The Jotunheim herd

Rholio's indulgent whinny made Spectre grin, the Jotunheim king pivoting lightly on his hooves. Spectre had known Rholio since long before, and though the two were close friends, Rholio had a need to protect, a need to always be guardian to something that often left him too focused to really smell the roses, and Spectre personally felt that the bulkier stallion should have something that let him smile a little more freely and enjoy his time more. Not that he wanted Rholio to slack off, per se, but...

Thinking back to the times he and Nana had surveyed Jotunheim from the high peaks of mountains in silence, the way they had said nothing as they shared a gaze and knew that they had the world and it's responsibilities... The moments spent with Abelia grazing or running that made time seem to pause, even rewind to him being a gangly colt, and her being the only friend that would give him the beauty of connection...

As Aune raced past him, a flash of rich brown and energy that burst out of her to knock into anyone in the vicinity, Spectre let out a neigh of protest at her words, snapping out of his introspection as he took off after, now sure that everyone was following. Maybe even this, with how Aune pulled him into each and every moment, feeling every single twitch of a fly that landed on a muzzle, open to each whim that chose to present itself and following it just because...

Then again, he reminded himself, that would probably give Rholio a bit of a panic attack. Perhaps not, then, but Rholio definitely deserved the chance to have someone else that made them feel that way. They were definitely close, but Spectre got the sense that Rholio needed something to protect, and though Spectre was careless, they had seen each other in enough scrapes to know that Spectre could handle himself just fine.

Surging forward and giving Aune a teasing nip, Spectre shied out of the way just in case she would kick, before looking back, just to check on the others, when he paused in shock. The tops of Jotunheim seemed to tremble, before the snow seemed to shiver, before sliding down the mountain. Not wanting a blind panic, yet knowing that time was of the essence, Spectre caught Nana's eyes, and he knew she understood. A silent conversation ran between them, and he would do his best to play his part. With their positions, it would be easier for her to bring up the back, and for him to lead the way, a strong dark colour for everyone to follow with ease.

He wasn't sure what she did, but he felt the herd's hoofbeats pick up into a fast gallop, and focusing on leading the way, he chuckled as he flashed past Aune in a fast pace. "I'm not going to accept being distracted for a reason to lose this race." He replied teasingly, before he set his eyes on Drasil, pumping his legs and forcing himself to go faster and faster.

They made it just in time, escorted by the crashing of the snow. Taking deep breaths to mask the trembling, he smiled, tossing his head and letting out a neigh to let the other herds know they had arrived. It wasn't a dominant call in any way, yet it was not shy either, simply coming in loud and not caring who heard. Others could make of it what they wanted. They were here.

Spectre shook himself, turning his head back and smiling with ease as his eyes quickly flashed from horse to horse. When he noticed Nana missing, there was only a slight tremble in his smile. Focus on what was here. "Is everyone alright?"

He trusted Nana, he reminded himself. If she could, she would appear later, and she would have his head for letting anything fall into disarray whilst she was gone.

Runa
2 Years Old~First Heat, stage 1 just beginning~
Mentions: Muspelheim herd
Tagged: Siv, Ferox, Duvessa

Runa was in a strange state. Time seemed to move quickly around her, words being spoken and actions being made, but for some reason, they seemed a distance away, muffled by some invisible layer that blurred the eyesight and took the edge of the hearing. In any other situation, Runa would be concerned, but right now, she was content to daze for a little while.

Only her sense of smell stayed as strong as ever, and the scent of rich earth and the tang of sweat tartly stung the nose. Dimly, she was aware that her mother was speaking, and the barrier seemed to fade. Her pupils going wide, she tried to hold unto it, but it disappeared, leaving her to deal with the reality without filing down the rough edges.

Then, there was her mother's voice, and the warmth of Siv's touch. Runa couldn't quite make out the words, but the constant tone was comforting, and Runa pressed herself further into her mother's warmth, wishing for time to stop just for a few moments so she'd have a little time to process her thoughts.

But then, her mother stopped, and Runa looked up, unwilling to shed yet another layer of comfort. But then it was the Baptist, and the huntress, tall elegant mares that seemed almost made out of the snow that surrounded them. Through her stunned mind, Runa grasped at what she knew, and habit made her bob her head respectfully.

Usually, Runa felt that the two were a little creepy. She respected all three of them, she did, but their actions and the way they could influence and read the world around them always made them seem like something other, something she could not simply strike a conversation with. But now, after all the weirdness that had happened, ethereal seemed right at home, and they seemed like peace, like the plants that grew out of the ash after Sutr's frequent eruptions, a bashful apology that the muspelheim herd was often glad to accept.

The huntress was speaking, and as her words finally unfurled themselves in Runa's ears, Runa's stuttering heart started to slow, before her mother's words once more reached her ears. Her mother being more of a stern dam, it was rare to hear her speak so much, basically covering Runa with assurances, and Runa felt the fear beneath it all, as well as the utter relief at their near escape. Letting out a breath, Runa pressed her nose to her mother's, just sharing breaths for a while, seeking some comfort.

Remembering that they were still with company, however, Runa looked back toward the two mares, now once more looking a tad unreachable with their divine status, and gave them a shy nod of thanks and a smile, before she fell quiet, looking to her mother for direction.

[dilly]

♛ ▬▬▬▬▬▬ ﴾ 𝕧 𝕠 𝕝 𝕜 𝕖 𝕣 ﴿

svartalfheim king | 16 | mustang | tags ; svartalfheim herd

What were the gods trying to say? Why did their messages so often have to be masked by violent imagery? A destructive avalanche, sent on its wild crusade for who knew what reason – why did it have to be this way? Had the bands of the nearby four regions escaped unharmed? Volker found this nearly impossible to believe; the gods always exacted their toll. Although, what he and his had done to deserve this wrath, he could not comprehend. But the whims of the gods were not for him to understand, and so he grimly devoted himself to the task of seeing his herd to safety. And safety meant Drasil – the hawks, at least, always delivered their messages with a pang of clarity. Run. And so they ran.

Brigitte flew before him, and the capricious angel Aurora, thankfully returned to him for the time being. And the devilish, brutish horses all crowded into Drasil? What would they think of such a tantalizing honeycomb – a youthful, champagne maiden, on open display along the sheltered banks of Drasil? The roan stallion’s ears went flat at the thought, at the stinging, inevitable truth of it. She would not be overlooked. And her gentle, wandering spirit would not allow her to pass the days with closed eyes, standing obediently in place with Volker to defend her from all sides. A sharp snort blasted from the stallion’s greying muzzle, and he powered ahead, though always keeping back so that he might keep each mare in sight. The tranquil white sky was not to be trusted, and the eerily quiet earth was not to be believed, either – when would it begin to thrash about, shaking off heaps of snow like any animal that has just rolled? Volker’s mind then slipped once again to the other bands; were their homes untouched by the gods’ strange circus? Had Niflheim evaded a flood, and Muspelheim the brunt of the ravenous wall of snow? Somewhere in his solemn heart, though he ached to refuse it, he knew it couldn’t be so.

He hated to flee his vaulted cliffs; he had to arch his neck and whip himself forward in order to keep his momentum going opposite his favored meadows. There was not a single spark of optimistic hope in the stud when he imagined what was to come. It had never been his wish to bring his band face to face with the other kings and their herds. The young, fashionable king of Jotunheim, who fancied himself a clever jester? He seemed to think himself supremely blessed; Volker supposed the king’s handling of the latest disaster would prove his true worth. And Ferox, who held himself in such high regard – had the gods granted him the favor he felt he was owed? Volker’s sullen brain touched lightly on Arkyn – the king was sensible in his reserved nature, and Volker would grant him the respected he deserved, without complaint, from afar. But now, when they were all to be so haphazardly thrown together? His ears came up to follow the proud, capable pounding of his mares, their quiet thunder a reassurance to the troubled stallion. His snow bird traveled confidently in their midst, fearless and beautiful to behold. The stallion’s mood was not lifted, however, as they came upon their destination. Their duty was fulfilled, the hawk’s message obeyed, and their safety promised. Volker’s dark eyes took in the scene the same way he would greet the sour taste of a bitter meadow plant: his brow darkened, his muzzle wrinkled with distaste, and his body went rigid and tense as he slowed, his steps weighed now with obvious reluctance. His spirit longed to abandon his body and its unpleasant situation, and glide back up to the cliffs of Svartalfheim.

A neigh broke into his thoughts, harsh and unwelcome: Spectre had arrived. The hulking roan spotted Arkyn’s dark form, and the clustered herd of Muspelheim. There were the Chosen, present among them as well; Volker regarded the collection with a wary eye, nostrils flaring as rank, unfamiliar scents began to twine around him. Letting out a low whicker to his mares, assuring they did not forget themselves in the overwhelming newness of their situation, he began to make his way carefully, watchfully, forward. His ears naturally went back as he noted the tall shapes of the other kings, his tail flicking irritably at his flanks.


♣ ▬▬▬▬▬▬ ﴾ 𝕣 𝕙 𝕠 𝕝 𝕚 𝕠 ﴿

jotunheim herald | 9 | brabant cross | tags ; jotunheim herd

Something in the familiar footfalls of his companions sent the bulky stallion lumbering forward even faster – his blood did not go cold with panic, and rather, he felt himself taking comfort in the warm body the little herd made together. They moved fluidly, their steps carrying them as one down and out of the mountain’s gnarled grasp. The surge of snow, as powerful as any sea wave, was mystifying for the big stud: where had it come from? But his brain, luckily, seemed to go sharp just as the mares’ did, and they galloped surefootedly and confidently out of danger. It was almost as though he hadn’t needed to think of it at all; Abelia’s grace and Nana’s wisdom had guided them, all together, to exactly where they needed to be. Big, powerful feet coming down heavily beneath him, Rholio proudly sought out his king’s form, that familiar dark coat shining against the blind snow. They had done it!

Coming to a meaningful stop, he turned his head to be sure all of Jotunheim was accounted for. Not an instant went by before his triumphant physique was faltering, his eyes widening with the exact panic he had evaded on the mountain. His searching eyes could not find Nana. With his head held high now, eyes scanning the place they had just left behind, he held his breath as if to better gather the sounds held captive in the snow. Surely she would appear in just a moment – or just one more…

Turning to look again at his king, regret openly flooding his eyes, he was taken aback to find that Spectre’s face was not broken with despair. The king was smiling, and in fact had turned his attention to announcing their arrival. He was not charging back up the mountain, icy fear brightening his eyes. No, he did not hold the appearance of a king contemplating the possible loss of his favored mare. Ears ticked forward now, holding back on breaking his silence, Rholio watched his king for one more intent moment. Did his smile tremble? But even as he thought it, the big stud had to remind himself that he knew Spectre better than that – the good-natured king was not going to rouse his present mares into a despairing panic. Plus, he was sure that Spectre trusted Nana above everything else; he would not grant the avalanche the power to have taken her. Perhaps he was quite simply sure she would return. If his king believed it, Rholio would follow suit. Regaining a trot forward, aiming to mask his own shame at having allowed the mare to vanish, Rholio tried instead to follow his king’s example. Focus on what was here, now. Tagging his own ringing neigh onto the end of Spectre’s, the herald’s ears came forward, his grand gait carrying him forward with purpose. No harm would come to the king’s remaining mares while they passed the storm here.


✻ ▬▬▬▬▬▬ ﴾ 𝕒 𝕦 𝕟 𝕖 ﴿

jotunheim valkyrie | 6 | dutch warmblood | heat ; 3 | tags ; jotunheim herd

Every possibility contained in Drasil appeared before Aune as vividly as individual blades of grass. This vision grew so fully and spread so rampant that she easily forgot the race; the destination stole her attention now. Drasil: perfect, protected and rich in forage and water. And company, too -- dangers happily forgotten, the mare drank in the splash of strange, tangled scents. Mares, stallions and angels alike, all completely new, and so close now. Who would they meet? What adventures were waiting to unfold, like the petals of a nighttime flower? A fleeting nip suddenly pricked against her flank, and the mare let loose a squeal and a sideways kick as Spectre’s familiar shape and scent flew by her. The tremors of the mountainside jangled her nerves, through the pure adrenaline of their flight was not exactly unpleasant for the young mare. She thrived on such moments, on such unbridled excitement, perilous or not. Sprinting forward with all of the speed she could muster, driven not only by the shared energy of the herd but by a simple, competitive urge, she chased after Spectre’s chocolate coat, that unforgettable ghostly mane cresting along his neck.

The king’s neigh inspired her own spirited whinny, and she came to an abrupt halt, head held high and nostrils flaring wide. The precautions take on their journey evaporated from her spinning brain, and her ears flicked from back to front, twitching to the side, then forward again, and she did not hesitate much beyond that before lifting herself forward again, long, thin legs carrying her ahead in a trembling trot full of anticipation. Spectre’s voice touched her ears, as familiar as a mountain breeze, and so it did not give her pause. She did not entertain the alternative: of course everyone was alright. They were of Jotunheim! Her high-stepping gait leaving a series of satisfying crunches in the snow, the mare’s wide, gleaming eyes scanned their new surroundings. Her dark tail flagged with excitement, and she completed a small circle before progressing further, impatience animating every movement. Though the air was cold, her blood was quick and warm, and her feet danced beneath her. A sensible part of her knew it would be best to keep beside Spectre, and another part was only just barely resisting the urge to race ahead, and behold all of what Drasil had to offer. It was almost a relief to give in to this disobedient urge, to keep her half of some unspoken promise with the universe. It had granted her this irrepressible spirit, and she was going to give it rein to run. Loping forward, she threw her head and aimed a retaliating nip at Spectre’s neck as she passed, her very skin vibrating with the urge to see what wonderfully terrible things the gods’ storm had wrought – how many horses were in Drasil at this moment.