†
She is fine boned and tall, slick still from the sea. Fog streams before his face as he exhales, then draws in a low, slow breath of her and adjusts his course to head down the beach. Already Temblor has lingered too long on the Crossing, and yet, he can't help but correct his path to intercept hers before he wades back into the tide. The water will be cold, frosted with foam. The promise of warmth within Paradise is a far thing compared to the steam rising off the gray mare's skin.
Temblor trots down the beach and matches his stride to hers, almost near enough to touch. His dark eyes cross over her face, near ear cupped toward her. This is when pleasantries should be made: a cordial "good afternoon" followed by idle, shallow chit-chat that leads to little except furthering the feelings of disconnect. He holds his tongue. He has been entirely too pensive of late and, hemmed in as he is by the jungle he calls home, he can't resist the temptation of the pale sands stretching far ahead of them. The wide swath is almost untouched, begging to be marked by the press of their hooves.
The Percheron gives a quick toss of his head to resettle his graying mane and extends his gait to move ahead of the mare, a friendly challenge in the lift of his dark legs and the cant of his head as he invites her, wordlessly, to race.
TEMBLOR
& swallows you whole
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