BATTLECRY

I've had my share of Falls

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Well join in the club. Love is but that of heartache. This valley that Battlecry clearly prided has fallen short of that emotion. There were no numerous numbers of dwellers here and sadly no children of his loins. Never was and probably never will be. And currently the ladies were not a knocking on his door. Most individuals would presume that the male gender pursues the ladies. Yet, Battlecry could not bring himself to waste idle hours day after day in that forsaken place called the Meadow. It was his wandering “hooves” that brought him into the gathering grounds and to happen upon this weary filled mare. Now here he stood in a regal stature which was his state, though arrogance could not be characterized of him. He was of the Thoroughbred lineage, the breed to be light of foot. A stunning, noble line that empowered them to hold the world in the palm of a hand.

A new day was upon us, and with its' golden fingers, it arises the crestfallen spirit this iron giant. Within that single inhale o' fresh scents, perfume of a long lost femmora bypassed into nasal cavities. The scent was so fimiliar but forgotten to the back of cognitive capacity. Tension ran rampant over the stately features of the raven male, for absolute rage and fury seeped into veins. Fury for the the scent of newly shed blood that wafted in the air and the fury for the fear that the mare was emitting. Raven lashes lowered themselves over the windows taking in the hurtful pains and hiding them away. The licorice poll climaxed 'pon focal point, allowing the line of nobility to be seen. Endless starless pools pierced upon the slinking form of Moon Maiden. His soul raping gaze flitted from the dry caked blood before sweeping to her terrorized face. Battlecry was no fool, and it was easily discernable that something was quite amiss. The heightend form of Battlecry moved from his usual liar of flickering shadows to send a undertone whistle to the lobes of Moon Maiden.