Foster has always been drawn to the ocean, and everything it holds. Depths and secrets; stillness, motion, powers, powers.
He's knee-deep in the water, the sea lapping up his legs. All four of them, yellow and black rising up out of the frothing surf as it rolls in. The water--it's not very cold but it's sharp, the spray burning his eyes, the taste on his lips, in his nose. He loves it.
Uh. Normally he loves it?
Right now he's having a pretty bizarre experience, his human (er, ursine?) arms stretched wide on either side of him, as far out as they'll go--palms flat, claws spread, and he's... he's vibrating, kind of, clipping up out of the water every time it rolls in and back down, into the ground as the tide rolls back out.
He can't move--not under his own power. He's effectively frozen, staring out over the ocean and clipping a little further out to see with every ebbing wave.
It's not clear whether his expression is a grimace or a grin.
Flower Power....?
The flowers were hideous.
He can't process entirely why, but he knows what he's looking at, knows what insult he can see with his own eyes. Maybe it's the colour. Yes, it's definitely the colour. It has to be. It doesn't even make sense, but he's beyond caring.
The only colour he ever liked is red, and then only in one context, one material--and only as one hue, unbroken and pure.
That material wasn't flowers.
And this? Was ugly.
The blue pansylike buds peppering the field here and there like a contagion, a disease encroaching on the natural purity of that red, breaking its solid wave with something... disgusting. No.
Worse.
Offensive.
And he's not used to anger, to... to rage. It's not allowed to him--frustration, tedium, things like that are normal, but something like anger is too justified, too entitled for a wretched... disgusting piece of worthless garbage--!
Which is why he's escalated past spurning the blooms and moved onto violently trampling them.
Nine feet of horse-man-bear-mushroom-taur just going absolutely ham on every blue flower he can see, exploding puffs of pollen into the air with every vicious stomp of his three-toed hooves.
Foster van Denend | OC | Trigger Warnings may apply!
Foster has always been drawn to the ocean, and everything it holds. Depths and secrets; stillness, motion, powers, powers.
He's knee-deep in the water, the sea lapping up his legs. All four of them, yellow and black rising up out of the frothing surf as it rolls in. The water--it's not very cold but it's sharp, the spray burning his eyes, the taste on his lips, in his nose. He loves it.
Uh. Normally he loves it?
Right now he's having a pretty bizarre experience, his human (er, ursine?) arms stretched wide on either side of him, as far out as they'll go--palms flat, claws spread, and he's... he's vibrating, kind of, clipping up out of the water every time it rolls in and back down, into the ground as the tide rolls back out.
He can't move--not under his own power. He's effectively frozen, staring out over the ocean and clipping a little further out to see with every ebbing wave.
It's not clear whether his expression is a grimace or a grin.
Flower Power....?
The flowers were hideous.
He can't process entirely why, but he knows what he's looking at, knows what insult he can see with his own eyes. Maybe it's the colour. Yes, it's definitely the colour. It has to be. It doesn't even make sense, but he's beyond caring.
The only colour he ever liked is red, and then only in one context, one material--and only as one hue, unbroken and pure.
That material wasn't flowers.
And this? Was ugly.
The blue pansylike buds peppering the field here and there like a contagion, a disease encroaching on the natural purity of that red, breaking its solid wave with something... disgusting. No.
Worse.
Offensive.
And he's not used to anger, to... to rage. It's not allowed to him--frustration, tedium, things like that are normal, but something like anger is too justified, too entitled for a wretched... disgusting piece of worthless garbage--!
Which is why he's escalated past spurning the blooms and moved onto violently trampling them.
Nine feet of horse-man-bear-mushroom-taur just going absolutely ham on every blue flower he can see, exploding puffs of pollen into the air with every vicious stomp of his three-toed hooves.
There is no way this can go wrong.