HOCKETY, POCKETY, WOCKETY, WACK
He stood atop one of the many ridges lining the meadows,hills and fields below. A fallen tree, now a hallow log, sat idly brushing against his hock. This turned out to be one of his favorite spots, the first place he met their now King, Ramiel. A trail laced its way up to the overhang, free of grass from use, though there were still steep sections that demanded caution.
At exactly the same time every day, the Turdidae would leap from the glebe, a brown speckled mob of song. They would fly past the ridge, and perhaps that was why he had been there today, at this very moment. It wasn’t an unusual place to find him, though it was hard to say what would be an usual place to find Weir. He himself was pretty peculiar, and not just because he stood literally a ‘bump on a log’ staring at a flock of birds. Just looking at the roan stallion would never give hint to anything unordinary about him, he was a common red roan. A few dashes of white marked his skin, straight down his face and up both back legs, otherwise he was very plain indeed. A set of amber occuls sat in his crown divided by his blaze, blinking against the emerging sun.
The precipitation had started to clear, barely kissing his skin in tiny insignificant pin-pricks now. He was grateful for the water, even if it had plastered his mane flat against his nape, a damp, clinging sheet. How unusual that the rain had brought in more than just the humidity that would soon ensue, a mass of black eased up one of many hills slowing from a break-neck pace. He watched her for a moment, studied her might be a more apt word. The interest she took in the lumber that broke the atmosphere up into the clear blue, her neck angled to peek the tops.
He whickered from his parapet, a gentle call to the new mare, one of greeting. A sinewy cape angling downward past the overhang. “Hello down there miss. Outrunning the rain are we? Quite the task I say.” He seemed humored by this thought, only continuing in his commentary. “In still air rain falls at seven to eighteen miles per hour, isn’t that wonderful?” What was wonderful was being filled with such boundless information, like a Meriam-Webster encyclopedia.