He had never been one to hate the rain.
In fact, he quite adored it.

Raindrop kisses and well-wishes from home, each drop rolling down his fine coat to leave a diaphanous sheen over his toned muscles. Did the sky truly wish him well? Was anyone in T'det missing him - did they even remember him? The serpent doubted it, and quite highly.
The man would wish though; wish away his minutes until the clouds unlocked to show him the moon and stars, the constellations and otherworldliness beyond the barricade of cloud. Manon, Halalì, Odette. All those he loved seemed as far as those stars.

With eventide in full swing, the midnight moon hung steadily over the ocean ahead, Toulouse began to stir from his vigil. Radiant, cool eyes flickered over the naked landscape, one cloaked only by sand, a sparse amount of blade-like beachgrass, and the sea itself overhead. A wasteland might be the best word to describe it despite the attraction for ghastly gulls or beach scoundrels. No water aside from the undrinkable kind was in sight, nor was any grass that would not slash one's tongue into a thousand cuts (He had learned the hard way as a colt that Beachgrass was most savage on the tongue).
Boomslang began to unravel from Toulouse's horns, the crown upon which he had slept and spent most of his days soaking up the body heat of his bonded. Behind his own leathery scales and reptilian hide waited a pair of vicious fangs, both laced with a magical concoction of paralysis poison. The grass-coloured snake was an impatient one, the urgency and tension growing through the bond as he urged his bond-mate to initiate a challenge, a spar, anything! The will of the serpent was one not often denied either - Toulouse adored the young snake, a brother of sorts, and one he intended to continue to rear as his own.

The thief, however, remained cloaked in his gold and finery. Not that anyone would know. Layl Dire, or 'night shield' in the common tongue was perhaps the most fascinating piece of equipment he'd picked up to date, so why would he not wear it?
It was enchanted in so many ways, in fact, he could tell it was more than just once - The fine suit was completely weightless and provided him with the most wonderful camouflage, so it was only during the day that anyone might witness its true brilliance and craftsmanship. Whoever made this was a genius, and he would not be surprised if it had been made for someone far greater than himself or even a king. Filigree and T'detan silk; it was the armour of the god's.
Then there was Cäkäna, his faithful bullwhip, each wolf's tooth still caked in the blood of Tae and the many it had slashed before her. It had served him so many years in battle, and again, like his armour was a token of his homeland.  

So as the rain continued to pour, rain he so loved and adored, Toulouse gave a great stamp of his hoof in a wild, primitive fashion. The demand for an opponent was issued, his lips raising to the moon as he unleashed his roar. Kisses continuing upon his silken muzzle skin and cloaked hide, the gelding waited and watched, perhaps not weighing up the dangers of demanding an opponent so close to the Dragon's Throat.

Though of course, Toulouse was certainly not the regretting kind.

Why should he be? He was a man who stood under a torrent of rain and loved it, and spent all night sending wishes beyond the stars.