d -- convene

align="center" style="width: 195; height: 320; overflow: auto">

Across Dreamscape the antemeridian shimmered into place, its chromatic

nebular canvas watercolored with twilit canary, translucent fuchsia,

chilean fire in the west, washing gently into feijoa, picton blue, a

tranquil navy and splashing out with a cod grey of night. The world was

suspended between morning and night, hung in wait for the rooster's

crow or zephyr's stir. The pizazz of morning glory was spreading

gradually over the sea, her sun's crown emerging from a long chardonnay

ribbon and blinding the absent passer-by. Yet opposite such

magnificence lurks a solitude shadow land, reluctant to allow its

silver chalice to sink into the pits of dismal slumber. Such was the

land of the Tranquile Peak at this hour, cast into shadow, the last to

receive the blessed royal heath of the morn. In such a waiting state

Dreamscape was pale in comparison to the brilliant vermilions of

sunset, or the bitter orchid whites of moonrise. Its countenance was

leeched of the sopping moisture it had acquired during the previous

day's rain by the thirsty atmosphere, the quagmire spongy but lacking a

swamped manifestation. Ordinarily vehement atmosphere's neutral exhale

is sensed as uncharacteristically ennoble and placate, tickling the

jaded blades of the meadow as opposed to forcefully whipping them into

disarray. Through the winter atmosphere journeyed a sylphlike mare of

almond frost and dusty greys, her strides were lengthy and transported

her fine arabian figure across the lithosphere with lithe smoothness,

as if floating instead of walking. Her paces increase genially into a

canter, illustrated in her dark eyes was neither excitement or nerves,

but a calmness unrivalled by those already abiding within Dreamscape.

The questions of acceptance did not plague her, for it was not

something she ever had sought. For four years she had dwelt on her own,

had battled and won against the elements and predators they all faced

together. Loneliness was not in her vocabulary. Tossing her mane into

the air she carries on, before slowing gently to a paced walk, looking

about the lands in which she had just arrived. It would have to do for

now, unless another impulse to depart got the better of her. Nares

aflare she halts, cold and fair as a pale spring dawn, waiting, hoping

to evolve into something bigger; more glorious. She did not bend to

eat, for her full had been taken closer to the border, and now there

was far more to be wary of. Idly she thinks of the chance of a battle,

though is perhaps disappointed by the requirement of a reason to fight.

Bugger. No call protrudes into the crisp morn silence, as she stands

wreathed in gentle mist... waiting...