PRACTICE makes perfect [open]

[★Issalyn]

[bg=cdbca8][atrb=border,0,true][cs=7] A lone stallion trotted amiably across the snow-patched plain. A few trees clung to life, mostly pine trees with fine needles that could survive the cold winter months of the land. Where the snow had melted, the ground was still soft, a loamy soil where only a few springs of grass tried to peek out. He wasn’t really lonely, for he had his mind to entertain him. Whenever boredom crept in, he simply traveled to one of the many places he’d been in the days when his young body had sought new destinations. The stallion wasn’t old, only twelve years. He was in his prime, though in a few years he’d begin showing his age more. His coat was a pristine white, which was truthfully just a faded out grey. His mane and tail were a mixture of sterling and white, only faintly standing out against his coat. They were wavy, attractive but not too curly. No markings were visible on his pale coat, but a small pair of ivory wings adorned his withers. They were the size of a dove’s, maybe a hair larger. Basically, they were so small they were useless to him, for they couldn’t even lift his heavy frame off the ground. Instead, they occasionally fluttered, sometimes without his control. Though no one could see, his teeth were small, the size of a young foals, but they never grew, like most horse’s teeth do. Aside from that, the most interesting feature about him were his odd colored eyes. At first glance, they appeared typical, a deep brown of sorts. But upon closer examination, small blue flecks could be seen. They seemed to stand out in some lights more than others, though many could carry on an entire conversation with him and never notice. The stallion didn’t care a great deal about his appearance; neither prideful nor vain. If mud clung to his hide, he’d probably go days before bathing, for such things didn’t bother him. He rarely ever thought about his wings anymore, now that he was older. When he was young, they’d fascinated him, and he’d always secretly hoped they’d grow. But after years and years of waiting, they still hadn’t grown, so he’d almost forgotten they existed. At least, until someone else commented on them on an occasion when they decided to flutter on their own. He covered his lands with ease, his gait sure and agile. He wasn’t fast, nor long-strided. Instead, he could move his legs at odd angles, sending them out in a dance around his body. He was flexible, and could lift his front hooves high into the air in front of him, without having to move the rest of his body to compensate. Some called it dancing, he just called it life. The pearly stallion was a Lipizzaner, and such gaits were part of his natural breeding. It wasn’t a special power, though some thought it was. His power was actually the ability to teleport himself. He couldn’t do it far, or often, but it served purpose from time to time. He knew he needed to practice it more, so he could gain strength and stamina with his gift. He’d had it most of his life, but he never used it much, so it was rather undeveloped. But now that he’d claimed his own land, there could come a time when he needed to fight, and he’d rather use his power than physically injure an opponent. So he focused on a spot ahead of him, a tree stump standing out of the ground. He closed his eyes, and then when he opened them again, he stood in the place he’d focused on. Oh, it was only a few yards away, but it hadn’t tired him, which was his goal. He figured if he practiced short distances a lot, his strength would grow, and eventually longer distances would fatigue him less and less. He began practicing again, teleporting himself from one spot to another, moving only a few yards at a time. He was so absorbed in his task that he had all but tuned out the world around him. He wouldn’t have noticed if anyone had come into his presence. - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

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Muse; Okay
Words; 780
Notes; None[/center]
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