(no subject)

The drifts are deep and it hasn't stopped snowing for the better part of the day, which mean its white nearly as far as the eye can see in every direction where the paths of footsteps aren't tracking to and fro. There are thin trails toward the forest and the field, and well worn paths around the loop of the lake and back and forth from the stables to bar. But even those are dusted with the still falling snow.

It's really quite impossible not to be dusted with the snow, with how much is falling. Light but constant, piling everywhere, in everything. So that Marian, who couldn't care less about her own hair jeweled with flakes in a good portion of it now that her hood has fallen away from focus, is laughing and brushing it off the nose of a mare the same color of the icy flakes she dusts away, who is head and half a neck leaning out the window into her.

She could do this from inside, where it is toasty and her fingertips wouldn't be full of chill, but where would be the fun in the that. Insides are always before and after everything already, and she knows how it feels to be cooped in a space too small for too long, without wide enough windows, while people pretend it isn't so. Which is where she finds herself. Behind Lineave's stall and just under the outside eave of the roof, in front of the the window facing out into endless fields of white.

Marian grinned, as her heavy cloaked shoulder was nudged, soft snuffling that broke to a low wicker again, as she was reaching up to stoke the jowl still faintly wet from whenever they were last let free to run for the day. "I should wonder if it is winter or freedom that has made you more impatient."

But she produced an apple from the folds of her cloak staving away another minute of it.