He breathed in the crisp winter's air, a chill flitting down his spine as his breath escaped in a puff of perfect white. The large stallion tossed red bangs from his line of sight and walked carefully through the snow...backwards, placing each hoof carefully in the prints already laid. Ears swiveled forwards, watching as he left a line of prints like marching ants in a row.
His feathered wings pressed against his body, keeping himself warm, where the Fae wings shivered with the cold. Snow clung to his legs as he walked slowly, deliberately, a look of concentration on his face. But if you listened, you could barely hear the touch of hoof against earth. So was his plan. He never claimed to not be odd, after all.
