Within moments, the skies have opened, releasing a deluge of water that even manages to pierce the thick jungle canopy in places. Perhaps Atlantis was weeping for the return of her wayward son, or maybe the elements, infuriated by the invasion, were merely trying to flood him out. Either way, as peals of thunder rumble in the distance, it quickly becomes apparent to Rade that he will need to seek more substantial shelter than is provided by the trees. Tossing the creamy curtain of his streaming forelock out of his eyes, the stallion clears his vision just in time to avoid colliding with the obstructing body in his path.

It takes precious moments for this information to penetrate the fog of anxiety in his mind; awareness of what he has just seen seems to sift through slowly, like the rain drops that filter down from above. He had staked his claim and met no objection, so naturally Rade had assumed that the land was uninhabited. What kind of creature, after all, would choose a lonely and solitary existence spent haunting the forest? There is no mistaking the desperation in the fading cry that follows him, however, even if he could not make out the words. Even Rade, who is shallow and self-absorbed and far from sympathetic, cannot help but to respond to her need.

He knows what it's like to be utterly alone.

Twisting his body around in a deft maneuver, he winds sinuously back through the trees, noting the way they sway and groan beneath the onslaught of the storm. Though he has never weathered so dire a storm, a vague recollection bubbles to the surface of his mind; of Debonaire, insisting that they must wait until the spring before they could depart. The late winter storms, he had insisted, were the worst. On the islands, that was the season of the hurricanes.

When he finds her, still standing there as if heedless to the danger that they are in, there is no time for formalities. The air has begun to crackle with an alarming electricity, and as he sucks in a gulp of air, it burns acridly in his nostrils. Beyond courtesy and consideration, he shoves his forehead roughly into her neck, seeking to lend her the impetus of his flight, to impel her hooves with the same frenzy and fear that drives his own.

“Freaking - hurricane. Don't stand - need - find - shelter!”

He huffs as he races toward the river, where surely, in the lee of a bank - or a cavern, if they were lucky - they could wait out the storm in relative safety. Though his lungs are fit to burst and his muscles scream in protest, the burden of his sorrows has been abandoned somewhere far behind him. In this moment, and in the saving of this solitary girl, he has found more purpose than he has known in seasons.

It occurs to him how ironic it is - that he should feel the life within him so much more acutely when he is staring down death.

stallion // mongrel // 15.1hh // 4 // palomino roan // reba
debonaire x neassa