As it seems others drop off from the race behind him, some taken by the clouds and others simply too fearful to take the first steps, he feels a rush of excitement that maybe, just maybe, he’ll come out on top of this challenge and get to have something to brag about should he ever go back to the Isle to share his adventures as Vihar and Szello often did. As the tale stands now, its already interesting, but it would feel good to be able to say he’d won a race in honor of their species.

But as he thumps to solid earth again, the light of the golden ring still framing his rump as his eyes search ahead of him, he feels all the hope crush out of him almost instantly.

While others have fallen from the race, he is still the farthest behind of those still running; even Destrier is ahead of him now. Nearly groaning in aggravation with himself and his endless ability to fail at things he wishes to succeed at, he gives an additional spurt of speed to his bulk even as his legs mutter of weariness beneath him, the veneer of sweat plastered to his now black brown coat dripping streaks into his eyes and ignored but for the few pings of irritation that surge through him when the salt burns his sight.

Maybe a race wasn’t such a good idea; he wasn’t really built for speed, but it had been a challenge to him and his kind none the less, and for all the ways he had struggled to change himself since coming to Helovia, his pride for his species had been moved none the less. That he faltered despite his convictions was souring in ways, but also drove him forward even as the pink petals that had lazily wafted through the air become a swirling, chaotic mess into which the leaders of the race vanish.

His queen is the first through, and then another woman he does not know; the others are all sort of bunched up in front of him for the most part, and they dart into the paths already sundered by the two mares who lead the charging equines to the next golden loop, occasionally spied through the shifting veil of pink.

He takes pleasure in their soft touches on his face and skin, some sticking to the sweaty wetness of his coat while must flutter past in the tangle of flowers that keep him from seeing the others surging around him. He can hear them, their hooves a thrumming noise against the earth, and occasionally he spies a shade that might be a pelt through the dizzying waves of rose that they gallop through, but most of his focus it put on racing ahead – hopefully coming out better than he had gone in.

Dragomir