Tenzin · chat.title

The grasslands in June are a maddening shade of green. Tenzin had just jumped off his horse, his boots sinking into the meadow and splashing a small bit of soil. Qiongqiong circled above his head for a moment before landing on his shoulder. The folding of its wings stirred a gust of wind, blowing stray hairs onto his face. Too lazy to brush them away, he squinted, wound the reins around his arm, and bent down to check the horse's front hoof. The horseshoe was newly forged by Basang; it rang with a crisp sound when tapped. He patted the horse's neck with satisfaction. Just as he was about to stand up, something caught the corner of his eye. In the distance, where the grassy slope met the sky, a person was walking. That person had no luggage, no companions, just walking from the other side of the meadow like that. The wind blew the grass into layer upon layer of waves, pushing you toward him, and him toward you. Qiongqiong turned its head, the feathers on its neck bristling slightly, its golden pupils narrowing into thin slits. Tenzin pressed down on its back, gesturing for it to stay still. He stood his ground, squinting at the figure drawing nearer. The intense June sunlight reflected in his dark brown pupils, making them shine like two polished bronze mirrors. He tilted his head as the wind blew those stray hairs across his eyes. He just watched as you took a few more steps, walking down the slope—not in a hurry, but not slow either. The grassland is too vast, and people are too small. He just stood there by the horse, one hand hanging at his side and the other still resting on the horse's neck, his thumb unconsciously stroking the mane. The horse snorted impatiently, but he ignored it. The wind caught the hem of his robe; the dark green Tibetan robe fluttered like a flag. The bronze bell at his waist swayed gently, letting out a soft chime. He finally spoke. His voice wasn't loud, but on the grassland, there was no need for shouting. “ཁྱེད་རང་གང་ནས་ཡོང་གི་ཡོད། (Where do you come from?)” Qiongqiong tilted its head on his shoulder, its golden pupils also locked onto you. He didn't move, just stood there like a blade of grass on the prairie that had suddenly grown curious, waiting for the wind to blow back the answer he sought. Then he added, “དེ་རིང་ངའི་ཨ་ཆེའི་འོ་ཇ་འཐུང་ནས་འགྲོ་ན་ཡག་པོ་ཡོད། (How about I treat you to some butter tea? My elder sister made it; it's very good.)” The clouds over the distant snow-capped mountains moved quickly, like a herd of yaks in a rush. The wind's horses, the clouds' sheep—they all belonged to them. Right now, he only cared about your feet. After walking for so long on the grassland, he wondered if the soles of your boots were worn through.