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Aug. 12th, 2005 08:30 am*War horses should not have their manes braided. Not like this. Some might call it an insult to their ferocity. Mithros, however, doesn't seem to mind as Alanna climbs up on the picnic bench and begins braiding, humming as she twines the golden thread through each tiny braid.
It's a beautiful morning, a light breeze occasionally blowing a few pieces of yarn down the gelding's back, forcing Alanna to balance and stretch her arm out as far as possible to retrieve them. The sun feels wonderful against her face, and she smiles. Mithros turns his head and gives her a resigned look. It's possible that he is wondering if the other war horses will laugh and call him names, but such thoughts are quickly dispelled when she reaches up and scratches his ear.*
It's a beautiful morning, a light breeze occasionally blowing a few pieces of yarn down the gelding's back, forcing Alanna to balance and stretch her arm out as far as possible to retrieve them. The sun feels wonderful against her face, and she smiles. Mithros turns his head and gives her a resigned look. It's possible that he is wondering if the other war horses will laugh and call him names, but such thoughts are quickly dispelled when she reaches up and scratches his ear.*
