The cold, icy grip of winter had been reluctant to turn loose of its chokehold on the land, unwilling to give up the control that it had so cruelly gained over the lives that struggled to survive below the dull gray skies and persistent snows. It had tried to outlast even the most resilient of species - not only the warm-blooded but also the plants and trees that had worked so hard to store vital nutrients and water in their roots to last through the months without their leaves. Even well up into the midst of the months that should have been filled with rain showers and fragrant, colorful blooms the determined winter season had refused to relent. But as the weeks passed, spring finally drew up its courage(perhaps with the support of summer at its back) and the bitter cold wavered, the snow melted, and then finally things began to grow.

It was a fascinating process to observe and to ponder, but to Rhaego there was not one thing that frustrated him more. He had been as well prepared for the harsh winter as almost any horse, not only with the burly muscle and brawn that kept him warmer natured than most, but also with the dense winter coat that he grew each year. Yet it was years such as this when the transition between winter and spring was so abrupt, that he did not shed as quickly as he liked. And boy did it itch!

The mealy dun is at the edge of the forest vigorously scratching his neck and shoulder against a young sapling (perhaps only an inch or two in diameter) that bowed under the weight that he leaned into it. His discontent is obvious as he grunts in frustration that he is not satisfying the itch well enough and he scratches harder, bending the small tree over so that it nearly formed a perfect arc over the ground. Copper-colored hair flitted to the ground from his scratching and clung in clumps to the side of the sapling. Rhaego was unaware of a stranger nearby in his woods - having recently checked the surrounding area for change or danger, he was content with the fact that all was well.