Dögun
We'll ride in the gathering storm
Anxiety pricks the grullo's hide, his nervous energy consuming him. Holding his head above water, his nostrils rapidly suck the salty air in. As his hooves bounce off of the sandy beach bottom, his lunges out of the ocean's surf. Shaking out his mess of ebony mane, the water spraying in every which direction. Hooves reach out across the sand, muscles propelling him up the beach. Nostrils test the air, scenting out the herd of horses that he knew would be around here somewhere. Ochre eyes scan the cliffs to his right, their heights easily towering over the grullo pony stud.
Nostrils quiver as the scent of the salty ocean mingles with that of an equine. Following his nose, he begins to ascend the beach. Quietly yet quickly, the grullo moves through the salt grasses that wave in the slight ocean breeze. As he tops the hill, he halts, his frost tipped tail sails out behind him. His eyes fall on a gilded appaloosa, his dark tip ears flicker at the sound of her call. She was calling out the rest of the herd, it was time. Lunging into a lope, his head snaking back and forth. Ears buried into his ebony mess of mane.
As he nears her, he begins to circle her, with ears pinned and maw open, he begins to drive her in the direction that he had just come from. Adrenaline pushes him. He keeps his distance but was close enough that he could drive her in the direction of the beach. Warily he watches around him just in case of the approach of the lead stallion of these lands. He knew that he would not go undetected for long, a bit of guilt tinges at the back of his mind, but he was desperate. "Lets go."
word count: 301
Icelandic | Grullo [ Ee aa Dd] | 13.2 hh
King of the Inlet
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