acts like summer and walks like rain

[Gale]

Gale run away with me-- lost souls and reverie running wild and running free The winds carry him by  lifting the long white expanse of his feathered wings. The rest of his navy body is tucked rather tightly together. The wind is cold here, even in the autumn, and Gale is forced to land where he had not expected. He is not quite sure where he is, being unfamiliar with the geography of Beqanna. After stretching his wings to avoid painful cramping, Gale folds them to his striped sides. He shakes out the rumpled hair of his spine mane. It’s grown longer in his time on the resort, bleached by the saltwater and combed by the seawind. The late evening sun reflects along his short coat, illuminating the dark strands so that they seem every shade of blue at once, from nearly ice to a stormy night’s sky. The pale eyed stallion is grateful for the coming darkness, as he often feels rather exposed by the full light of day glittering around his hide. For now, he moves to stand clear of the wide open space where he’d landed His stomach rumbles, and he remembers the last meal he’d had. A few mangos just after dawn, not enough to satiate him but enough that he wasn’t hungry. He’s been planning on eating when he got to the River, but then the unexpected autumn winds had buffered him about over the mainland, and he’s ended up here instead. Where is here, anyway? The earth beneath his feet is pitch black, and there are a dozen little pinpricks at his legs and belly where the grass touches him. Sawgrass, he realizes with a murmured curse. Setting his shoulders, he forges his way out of the grass. It was not worth the effort of taking flight. Not when the cuts heal even as they appear. He reaches the edge of the plains – the Plains, he corrects internally – and breathes a sigh of relief. A high--pitched noise overhead causes him to blink, and suddenly he can see himself from a hundred paces overhead. There is a path ahead of him free of sawgrass all the way to the Riverlands in the distance. With a whicker of thanks, Gale presses forward toward the more delicious grass, and the nearly-white bird of prey overhead rises higher and higher overhead until it is vanishes into the sky. @[anyone]