| Subject: *The great silver steed prances slightly, perfectly balanced.* |
Author:
Fyre
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Date Posted: 10:34:49 09/19/02 Thu
In reply to:
Black Beauty/Wind Song
's message, "*jumps with hapynes!!" on 15:59:44 09/18/02 Wed
*A cool wind rises, causing his mane and tail to stream majestically behind him. Squinting, he arches his magnificent neck, nostrils flaring in his elegantly chisled head as he raises a solid silver forehoof slightly, stepping forward against the strong wind toward the pond. He reaches it and turns, the wind swirling his long silvery-white forelock around his dark, romantic eyes as he calls to his mate and son, a proud whinny full of majesty. His nostrils flare again as he calls once more to them and then turns looking out over the pond, whose normally smooth surface is now ruffled with small waves from the wind, which makes his heart lift, excitement rush through his veins and his heart soar in a thrilling burst of energy. He raises his head and calls out a challenge to the rising storm, then plunges forward fearlessly into the strangely warm waters. He raises his splendid head, nostrils flaring, eyes wide as he pumps his tightly sinew-bound legs against the current, the waters which match his hide exactly in color slapping wetly and restlessly against his neck and thickly-muscled chest. He glances back for the rest of his family and plunges onward through through the churning waves, heading for a small island in the middle.
Moments later, he reaches it and the broad muscles in his hindquarters bunch tightly as he leaps forward and upward, landing in balance on the sandy shore. The waters were warm, but in the constantly swirling wind his body is cold and he shivers slightly. He paws the turf lightly and looks around.
The island is not much to speak of--dry turf supporting sparse tan-green grass and a few knarled trees, the remnants of a hazel-nut grove. Some briars are sprawled across a broad slab of rock in the middle which supports another slab, larger, which is thrusting out against the restless sky--a perfect place to stand on and survey the territory, he realizes, and probably dragged there for that very reason . . . but how? Winged horses? Possibly . . .
He tosses his splendid head, his shiny mane swirling about his elegantly chisled neck, every muscle in his powerful body traced with shadows from the looming, storm-bruised clouds. The strong young stallion turns his head, neck gleaming, and looks back, mane swirling about his face, tail streaming out behind him in a majestic wind.*
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