Posted by r o n e k on 7/12/2002, 9:48 pm His voice came spiraling on wispy zephyrs. It startled her; the fine noble head was thrown skyward, mane of living light rippling and flaming upon the crest of the scarlet neck. Great lovely dark eyes searched the empty slope from whence the sound had come, ears sharply pricked, muscles tense: there was no place to hide if it was an enemy coming... and who knew where her stallion ran now, or even if he would answer any call she sent forth. Drako... if only she knew where he was, if only he would be near enough to hear, if only -- if only -- but then the wind changed. It was no enemy; it was Aventar, fine chestnut horse coming down into her line of vision at last, fine sweet familiar scent seeping into her nostrils at last, tainting the air drawn into her lungs. Ronek went cantering out from among the trees to greet him, lovely head up, mane and tail streaming, streaming: she pranced to a halt at the foot of the little path he was coming down and called, voice soft now, hesitant, wistful.
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