Accept the fires from which I came ;;

He moves swiftly along the lower edge of the ridge, frame imbued with a vigor and verve he has not felt in many a season, the cool autumnal breeze tugging at a knotted and tangled mane. Bright, golden eyes rove along the path ahead, the stallion’s scent weak in his nostrils, though his image is strong in the piebald’s mind. It was high time the King of Scythia had a discussion with its only captive – the great and mighty Gobardon, a legend of Hoof Prince and a veritable stranger to this particular slate-splashed stallion. It is not with awe nor any sense of idolatry that Taboo seeks him out; more so, it is a thirst for information, a need to satisfy his innate curiosity. Red-rimmed nostrils, ivory-licked limbs, and slate-marked ears aid him in his search and still, the silence stretches on, the whole of Scythia having seemed to slip into a sort of hibernating slumber.

He leaves the mute foothills of the north, slipping across a field full of barrel-high grass, the edges long brown with the onset of fall. Finally, the captive man’s distinctive odor grows steadily stronger and he is a hound at the scent, hindquarters bunching deep beneath him only to fling the gained ground away in his wake.

Rounding a close-knit group of trees, his quarry is suddenly there, dozing in the afternoon light. He cannot help himself – the absurdity of the scene brings a short bark of laughter rushing from his lips. He did not know what he had expected, but surely it was not this. A world-weary man sleeping peacefully beneath a slow-moving sky, apparently content in his captivity. Snorting softly, Taboo approaches, molten gold pools enigmatic in their stare. “Hello Gobardon,” he says, slipping nearer. His tone is not overly friendly, nor is it hostile, ears twitching hither and thither in their anticipation of a response.