The scream cuts like a knife.

   He shivers at the touch. His head rakes skyward, senses thrust out toward whatever hellish creature claims his ears, but only the pale sun and the blue of heaven answer him. The murmur of the wind rocks in his ears. The shadow of a hunting hawk paints black across the ground, and later the shriek of a rabbit tells him death has won this day - but it was not a rabbit earlier.

   He moves.

   White limbs churn beneath his supple body, a picture of far better health today than he has painted in days past. His face hurts a little less, though jagged scar tissue has moved in to replace the cloying sickness of infected scabs, and it all promises to leave him ugly. Weathered, Asur thinks with a touch of dark amusement. You look a soldier now. His brothers would be proud, he thinks, despite the circumstances of the wound. He has escaped hell with his mind and spirit intact. He will make the most of both.

   Asur moves with the confident grace of inborn power, though his nostrils flare as the thin taste of blood wends on the wind. Slowly the stallion's long neck stretches up, and toes scuff across the dry husks of old summer grass. The blood comes after that scream, he thinks. He will investigate, he thinks. He owes the Foothills herd that much - that blood will be repaid in blood when the time comes to it. With a snort he moves into a trot, his braided mane slapping its cadence against a muscular shoulder. The familiar rhythm works its way into his veins and soon the noise of voices joins the scent of blood, and Asur slows to listen - recognizing one.

   No sooner has recognition passed his mind than the familiar tone fades and another speaker takes his ears, one strange and feral and distorted. With another snort, the stallion breaks upon them - gleaming copper, white-eyed, large. His tail slashes the air behind him and his eyes dive for the gryphon - gryphons - gathered near Rishima. For an instant reason falters; instinct screams of beaks and claws but observation says the mare is calm, the largest gryphon clean of blood and standing well at ease. His mind reels, stomach roils. Asur's haunches tense, and two feet taller than his true height, the stallion moves forward on careful toes. "What?" The gravel of the stallion's voice grinds out, too loud, and his lips wrinkle back in obvious disgust. "Rishima?" Sidestepping, he clears near the mare and glances from her to the little gryphon, back to her and then to the large one, ever careful to keep his right side toward the predators.