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11-17-2012, 08:16 PM
Joran's chest heaved in and out, his skin twitched as a fly landed on his muscled shoulder, with hair a grayish grullo, scars along his shoulder and back and side. Though not the handsomest of all, he was attracting enough. The Foothills stallion lay sprawled out on the ground, frightened and frustrated about not being able to get up; he had been running and he suddenly collapsed, with a sharp pain in his left front leg. Now Joran was laying here, hoping someone would come along to help him. Perhaps a snake had bitten him, but not a venomous one, for if it were venomous, the storyteller stallion would be dead by now. Would someone come to him, come to his rescue? Joran felt imobilized and unable to move. He wondered if his fate, his death, really did lie here. Would he get up again?
