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Carry both of us Carry her, carry me Dark clouds rolled and rumbled in the distance, threatening another downpooring rain that would surely flood some areas at their sandy home. Scowling, Einarr lifted his wings and lifted off the top of a red plateau, catching a warm drift of air to lift him higher towards the thunderhead, but also toward the heart of his herdland. His patrol was nearing its end, and the waxing Orangemoon days were doing the same. With the approach of winter there was a heightened sense of danger about the inked stallion, and his patrols seemed to last longer and longer. He paid little mind to the time he spent on his duties, for being passionate about his work was something that defined him. Einarr was the Gladiator of these sands now, the bloodrider at Gaucho's right hoof, and that meant his heart was to be even more dedicated to service than it had been in the months previous (which, honestly, was hard to accomplish). Einarr had always been a dedicated warrior to this desert, to this herd, and the idea of him pushing himself even harder was near unfathomable--for, could he be pushed further?
Of course he could. He was Einarr. He was a trained and tried soldier.
Tipping a dark wing, the stallion made wide arcing circles around the lake, the figures of his youngest children blurry but distinct to his reddened eyes as they raced across the sands, Nizho chasing Asavvi in a game (of what he suspected) of forced tag. They were safe in these lands, of that the bloodrider was sure, and so he continued on his new pursuit: to find their mother. Cloven hooves touched down on moist sand as the stallion landed, heavy and brutish and like a sudden, erect statue on the shoreline of the great lake. Massive wings tucked in to muscled sides and Einarr's great head swiveled on his thick neck, sienna eyes falling quickly on the wild bay mare as she stood grooming herself beneath the largest tree. "Megaera!" Einarr called, making his way towards her at a swift, galant trot. |
if you bury me, i'll bury you
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