A restless heart and erratic internal compass demand a brief and random deviation west during their adventure beyond the basin’s snow-capped walls. While the onset of Orangemoon rusts the emerald foliage of scattered oaks and the long, golden meadow grass, both bound to earth, the heavy stallion descends in long gliding circles, smoothly above. He and Nora have been travelling for hours, yet this time, the wellbeing of the pretty dove and her need to rest (whether she suffered or not), stands strongly in the forefront of his mind. The course of a winding river snakes below and it was towards this which his direction is aimed - a source of refreshment, both for their minds and their bodies.

Large, round, sturdy hooves collide with the ground at a thunderous canter and he works with vigorous strides to collect and slow his gait to a walk; it is well that the vicinity is so open, for he covers much terrain in the effort. Crisp white feathering swirls and streams in the slipstream of his swift, powerful motion, of the wings that beat and then tuck, before falling into a motionless skirt about each of his thick ivory pillars when at last he is stopped. With pumping, uplifted nostrils he surveys the area, drinking long laboured gulps of the cool, fresh air until the frenzied recovery of his billowing lungs has eased. At first he overlooks the retired figure of a woman, nestled in seclusion beneath the sprawling, amber arms of an oak - he seeks sign of danger first and foremost, and that she is not.

Trembling legs brush through the wind-tossed field as he doubles back towards the water, while thistles and spurs gather in the magnificent length of his soft flaxen tail; care of outward appearance is not a trait his personality favours, so he barely notices the kinks and knots that quickly form therein. The shadow of his dove sails over and Noah lifts his stark turquoise gaze towards the heavens. Her comely figure attracts his interest to linger until it passes above the stranger’s oak; his gaze suddenly descends as branches and leaves shatter the enticing, romantic image of her underside, to alight upon the almost monochrome (though perfectly lovely) features of the other. ”Oh…” startled thoughts erupt into blunt action from his lips. ”I didn’t…”

But there is more to the picture - he is perceptive, quick to unravel the truth carved anxiously into her expression (even as she appeared to rest).

”Miss, are you hurt?” The voice bears a note of soft reasurance, and as much show of benevolence as he can muster. Knees remain stiff, bearing his weight in place with a sound distance between them, and his ears flicker uncertainly as the wind whispers through the grass beyond; Nora would soon land. Too concerned for the welfare of the collapsed, vivid eyes wait gently upon her, searching artfully for trace of blood or ailment (the shifting weather often invited a brew of bacteria to life); yet for all of the small, elegant creature in view, there seemed to be naught but a savage fray of stress. Taking a tentative step towards her, he lowered both face and feather to appear less imposing - perhaps the method he should have used when he had first found his dove in a similar state…

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior