[There are eight instead of four.
He doesn't like this new place- wherever this new place is, it seems dark and smells of too many things that Sleipnir does not recognize. The time is now spent kicking at the sides of this new prison, but it does not budge (even if it bends).
Over water, through the air- to the land of the dead and back. Those are the places Sleipnir treads in his mind, with the knowledge that he will never fail in getting to his destination. It is foreign and alien to have such notions- too complex for a simple horse (Sleipnir is not a simple horse).
When they finally let him out to an open-air pen, he stretches all eight legs, kicking and rearing- cavorting, then rolling on the grass trying to get out all the pent-up energy out. The landscape and weather are unfamiliar, but not unpleasant. Once he has managed to tire himself out, Sleipnir lays down on the grass to enjoy the sun.
Hopefully someone will bring him something good to eat soon. Green apples preferably. Sugar lumps were not bad though, if Sleipnir was in a good mood he might even accept oats, maybe. Eating was the only thing to do for now, time was of no consequence to this horse. Ragnarok would call one day.
The son of Loki does not wait for the man who gave birth to him, but for his master.]
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thetruemotion's journal
