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The Lost Islands
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Let there be fire.
Posted on July 20, 2012 at 07:43:28 PM by BADR

Beschea

The heat grows like a living, breathing thing. Rising up over the dunes in the shape of clear waves that disrupt the infinite view of the rolling golden sands, it appeared to manifest as a shape- a thing with a body that moved over the desert like a wild creature. Even days like these found the stallion lounging about the eaves of his oasises, splayed out in the shade and breathing slowly, willing his blood to course a little slower, and his heart to pause just a bit, to prolong the penetration of heat into his skin.

In this lazy state, the stallion is all but completely vulnerable, even as his ears naturally twitch and flick to find sounds and disturbances, he disregards the majority of them as small animals or the rare insect skuttling across the sand.

But the heat does not bother him as much as the strangers invading his home.

At some point, he assumes midday, he eventually rolls to his belly and aims to head for the shore, hoping to find the sea breezes that should comfort him and offer release from the heat. Even as he moves across the dunes as though he were born here, and not in the flat, barren wasteland that he had in fact been born in, there is the occasional stumble about his feet and legs as he carelessly descends the dunes towards the shore. There he spots her, not too far from the ocean, the moisture already free from her skin as the heat rained down on her- assuming the only moisture about her is the sweat that should be clinging to her skin.

Badr looks at the woman for a moment or two, watching her child trail almost agonizingly slowly behind her before he turns towards them and approaches. No sound is needed, no cry, no call- the dunes are relatively flat here, and no doubt the mare can see the dark shape of the stallion moving through the waves of heat pushing up off the sand, and that, from his rather leisurely pace, he meant no harm. Only once he is close enough, does he recognize the woman as the mother from the meadow. Pausing, he is certain she is here only to scold him, but instead, he jerks his head towards the belly of the dunes- further inland, and mutters one word. “Come.” He would bring her to water and shade before questioning her reason for being here.

badr
The misguided jailbird.
stallion. flaxen liver chestnut. unknown crossbreed.
ee aa ff. fifteen & three hands. eight years. russell.
html & character by Russell
Click image for full size.


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