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Finishing this race would be a victory in itself. He would have made it all the way to the end. Warmed air pushed his frame forward as long as he remained within the flumes; this gave weary wings a chance at a small break. Lunging on wistfully Midas danced through the air; each strong beat providing ample lift. Forest melted away, and what remained was a great span of grassland. His mind told him that this place was, ‘Thistle Meadow,’ a small smile laced across his lips. They were almost toward the end. Renewed vigor pushed him forward with haste quickening his rhythm. Gaze caught sight of the next ring, green, diving through it in the same fashion as all the others he angled up only to be greeted with large white bounds of wet fluff to greet him. Snorting, Midas plunged through the cloud. Lashes blinked away drops of moisture as untapped wetness licked trails along his pelt and muzzle. Finding rings became a game of chance, he was forced to pause and search for them one by one for many long minutes. He could only hope that the others were having nearly as much trouble as he. Emerging slightly wet and a little chilled Midas continued on and found the air grow much warmer and more salty as he went. Frame ducked through rings of deepening blue. Eyes narrowed and ears perked as the vast sea stretched out before his gaze, a figure rested just beyond the final ring. This was it. The final drops of his reserved energy seeped into thin veins. Speed came, each wing flashing faster than he had ever gone before. |
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