Othello's tiny hooves crunched through the leaves. Clouds puffed from the holes in his mask as his breath heated the air.
crunch, crunch, crunch.
His ghostly blue eyes bright alight with glee as the desiccated leaves and twigs met their demise under his mighty march. He was pretending he was leading an army to war, high stepping down the well worn path near his family's small cave. Father, Bianca, and Laertes were resting. The four of them had just returned from one of their many trips, mama was supposed to meet them later, but Othello hadn't been tired. Atlas was, he was watching what Othello did sleepily through their eyes, making halfhearted assertions that they were sure to catch a chill, being out and about on a day like this, and that the leaves were certain to conceal a hole or a rock that would most likely break one or all of their legs when they went sprawling. Othello ignored his brother easily, together since birth (well, almost, Othello asserted he was slightly older than his 'twin'), the boys had grown used to sharing one body and being privy to each others' thoughts. Atlas was always exceptionally gloomy and pessimistic, Othello chose not to let it bring him down, he loved his brother, and since Atlas was not likely at all to ever bring himself on adventures, Othello would make sure his twin got out and lived a little. It disturbed him that the older they got, the harder it was to hear his twin while he was in control of their body. When the mask came off and Atlas rose to the surface, it was harder to pay attention to what his brother was doing.
The tuft of varicolored hair that served as a tail for the brothers flicked back and forth in excitement as they came to a stream, Othello wanted to build a raft and sail down the river. Atlas thought they would very likely that their raft would be battered to pieces on rapids that were sure to be farther down the stream and they would die a terrible agonizing death.
"Will you, puh-leease give it a rest?" Othello exclaimed, antagonized beyond belief. A sudden thrashing in the bushes right next to them made even Othello squeak. "W-wh-whose there?" he called, "Show yourself!" A series of grunts and mumbles escaped the foliage but nothing emerged. Fear abating, Othello stepped closer to the bushes, Atlas, all the while was begging for his brother to make a run for it before they both got eaten. Othello shrugged off Atlas' worries and picked up a hefty branch in his mouth. Of course, it really was not much bigger than the slenderest twig, but to the foal, it felt like a worthy weapon.
