The copper-brown of late-autumn foliage and the, naked, skeletal fingers of old retiring timber, passes in a murky blur as the silver and gold stallion, sails on slowly overhead. His wings stride magnificently upon the softer thermals of mid-altitude and he is content enough to hang there, for the dove who lingers somewhere behind seems to lack strength enough to drive any deeper. That sweet, slender girth - he delights fancifully in  the recollection of inebriating musk there on it - has blossomed on the good growth of these southern lands, though her mood has in contrast withdrawn a little, enough so, that his simplistically male frame of mind begins to worry some for her wellbeing… Noah isn’t phased by this fleshy, curvy silhouette grown about her (he presumes this is the cause) - in fact, he finds the new her rather fetching - but he feels she is spending longer stints than normal, gazing at the change in her own reflection; she does so almost to the point of obsession and it seems apparent, that not even the sweet caress of his affection works to soothe her.

Perhaps the novelty of adventure has worn thin.

It is time to turn back.

The path into the north seems more convoluted than ever. Unsure eyes scan the horizon for the jagged outline of teeth - of mountains - for their presence upon its stark line (he believes), betrays the position of the bitter hovel they seek; a foolish heart pounds beneath a wind-chilled breast, yet he is certain not to let slip any hint of his doubt to his dove. A startlingly emerald forest erupts suddenly from the patchwork quilt of bronze countryside below, and his thoughts press upon its vast, murky surface, recalling a terrain similar or three, from their initial movement south. All those months ago they had paused on the brink of one - the dragon-girl lurked within - and this discovery, the revelation, spurs a jolt of electric encouragement through his weary brain, before feathered arms dip into descent. Very slowly he delivers a path between spiralling zephyrs, guiding the liver-cream princess as safely as he can possibly, into the welcoming embrace of a sunlit glade.

He is tired, muscles burn brutally with the onset if fatigue, but there is a flicker of fire between shining aqua  irises that seeks out the dove for motivation, inspiration. While she alights, he watches on attentively, scrutinising the supple earth as it receives each precious hoof and no sooner has she settled, than his thick, brawny limbs begin as high-stepping dance forward; his bones crave the numbing fury of testosterone and it ignites on cue, to further fuel his ostentatious display. Fireworks sleep below the surface of her skin, and addicted, he delves down to find them. Nares drive home, hoping to sweep along the concave breath of her collar, placing there soft kisses if his lips win their aim - but he pauses suddenly and his chiselled skull lifts high. They are not alone in this glade and he whispers faintly, “wait!” Brothers rest forward vigilantly upon the pinnacle of his crest - it has risen, and torrents of flaxen stream down in the breeze - while eyes search and spy; a stranger, a stallion, stands downstream.

With broad chest swinging and tail snapping brazenly in his wake, he manoeuvres that way at a less imposing gait. ”Evening,” young, bold vocals throw (a show, for he is raw and unpracticed), and he pauses a polite distance to the one coated partly in mud, so that they each might discern the other first. A glance slips back to check on his dove, and a warm smile passes through his expression; when he returns to the male, the softness is lost.

Noah

I was born a warrior
I was born a warrior