The Judge, the Gypsy and the Warhorse

"Comes from a fierce line of warrior horses, they told me," Frollo's voice drifted through the forest. "Fears noone. Will stop at nothing. Or so they said."

Here Bucephalus neighed, a reedy sound somewhere between a complaint and embarassment. "You try saying "No" to her, old man."

How could anyone say "No" to her indeed? A forest nymph, daintily stretching out her legs and wriggling her toes atop what was once, until quite recently, his fierce and loyal destrier horse. His warhorse, decorated with daisies woven in his manes. Manes as black and unruly as the girl's.

The man who was once Judge Claude Frollo smiled and stretched his thin muscles in the warm sun. Then he inhaled deeply, taking in the forest scents.

And simply enjoyed the golden moment.

Summer in his heart.



Enjoy the summer folks! I know i am! (And so are they)

Watercolours and inks. And love.