happiness is fragile, only duty endures
The cool breath of the sea has long been smothered beneath the burning glare of the sun when a gusting wind begins to undulate across the endless desert. At first, Hawke embraces these soothing currents of slightly-cooler air, her eyes falling closed in bliss as they comb through the sweat-darkened slate of her coat. It is only when the unusual golden eyes reopen, seeking the next divot that marks the trail, that a panic as oppressive as the sweltering air expands in Hawke's chest. The wind is transforming the arid landscape, stirring the shifting sands into a chaotic, whirling dance - and whisking away the signs of El Cardo's passage. The dunes, it seemed, were restless - and now she was hopelessly lost among them. Clamping firmly down on the first tendrils of insidious fear that have crept into her consciousness, the grullo girl wets her parched lips with her tongue and swallows against the burning ache of her thirst. The last oasis she had stumbled upon was some hours' journey behind her - the last oasis! As the suggestion of a smile smoothens the wrinkles of worry from her face, Hawke turns her slender body around. She would simply return to that oasis and wait for the strange golden mare to find her there. Seeking a familiar landmark with her amber gaze, however, the young mare's heart plummets to beat feebly against the cage of her breast. Each dune looks the same as the last, devoid of any distinguishing features that would indicate the direction she should take. Crushed beneath the weight of her own despair, Hawke has just crumpled to the ground when the gentle thunder of hooves on sand reaches her ears, preceding an inquiring - and unmistakably equine - call. The desperate sound that she would respond with, unfortunately, lodges in her gritty throat. Only a faint whisper of a cry manages to pass her cracked lips - barely audible to her own black-tipped ears. Would the stranger move on? Panic lends to strength to her faltering body, limbs flailing frantically in a struggle to lift her from the sand. Once standing, Hawke takes off in the direction of the call, managing only a wheezing as she attempts to call out again. Half-crazed with the fear of being left behind and not a little delusional from thirst, she almost plows into the foal before her befuddled mind has made sense of the looming russet form. Sidestepping clumsily, Hawke merely clips the mare's shoulder instead, her lathered sides heaving from both exertion and residual terror as she twists around to face the stranger and her child. Unfortunately, as dehydrated as Hawke is, her voice has completely abandoned her, but the young woman's relief is palpable now that she is no longer alone. xxy .. 1 year .. grullo tobiano .. mixed .. 15.3 hands hawke |