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Two kimeti stand on a ridge overlooking a vast, dry portion of the swamp. They look quite similar, silhouetted against the blue sky -- both are bucks, both are blonde. One appears slightly older than the other; his shoulders are a touch broader, his mane a lighter blonde, and over one of his eyes is a scar (an old one, from a fight with a lynx, a fight that has been embellished over and over again). It could be that they're father and son -- the elder one looks from the other to the grasslands that spread out at their feet, and then shakes his sun-bleached blonde mane out of his eyes. "All of that," he says in his rough voice -- as if he's swallowed sand, a voice that (as he rightly thinks) has gotten him into the good graces of many a doe -- "could be yours. You just have to go out there, Grass."

Longstride -- to his apparent surprise and utter delight -- has found one of his progeny, a son. And a son who doesn't seem to loathe him as much as the one other offspring he's found, a doe who could be his exact clone, does. This one presents a prime opportunity to mold another kimeti into his image. He grins -- the look is rogueish, wolfish. The self-confidence is almost blinding. "Trust me -- get out there into the wilderness and see what happens."

Longstride's exploits in the swamp are legendary or infamous, depending on who one asks; there is a string of does left behind in his wake, left either jilted or wistful (and one or two bucks, truth be told, which Longstride would deny ever having dallied with). More than that, there are stories, embellished and gilded, about how Longstride saved a foal from certain peril at the jaws of a crocodile, or managed to make his way a full mile out into the kiokote plains before turning back -- any one of a number of things, some of which might have seeds in truth, but most of which have likely been retold in ... quite flattering terms, some by Longstride himself.

If Grassland Flower wishes to live up to his sire's hoofprints, they are quite big hoofprints to fill -- quite swollen with ego.

Longstride sighs at his son, looking out of the plains, blue eyes narrowed against the glare -- and then stomps a hoof for emphasis. "You know you were born right in the middle of it -- all of the mud and the 'nasty things.' You have to get in the middle of it and grow comfortable with it. You're washable. Think about what you're missing."

Longstride gives his son a look of such longsuffering it might actually hurt him -- and then sighs, the sound rumbling out of his barrel chest. "You are missing it. Have you never run across the flatlands? Run until your heart feels like it's going to explode, until your muscles sing?" He pauses. "Have you actually been out of the flatlands? I'd even come with you, if you wanted."

Longstride isn't exactly despairing of Grass ... and not even disappointed. He just cannot understand how any of his spawn would lack the desire to roam.

Despite Longstride's reputation, how he looks is secondary. The tales of his exploits when does are involved aren't as important to him as the tales of pushing himself to his limits. As a warm wind kicks up over the plains, swirling around the two kimeti and sending Longstride's tangled, sun bleached mane into his eyes, he looks around and then seems to come to a decision.

If Grass turns to look at his sire, he'll see the other buck smile brilliantly at him before taking a step forward -- closer. "Of course you can go find some. I'll help you." And with that Longstride butts him in the side, using the power inherent in his broad shoulders and strong legs to send his son over the side of the bluff.

It's not a steep drop down; in fact, any adult kimeti worth his hooves will be able to navigate it -- making their sliding, leaping way down in a shower of small pebbles, dirt, and coarse half-dead grass. If Grass could spare the attention to look, Longstride is just behind him, leaping easily down the cliff in a motion that looks almost practiced, laughing the entire time. He makes it look easy, and perhaps for him, it is.

At the bottom, he laughs, though the sound is a bit winded; he pauses to catch his breath. "Have you ever been to the ocean? We won't go that far. But we're heading out of here."

Longstride would never have let anything happen to Grass -- or to any of his children. Not if he were around to supervise, at least. At Grass's shrieking, however, his composure splinters and breaks; the grin he wears becomes broader and broader until he can't help but laugh. He swallows it down so the sound becomes something like a snort, but -- Grass will know from the brilliant glitter in Longstride's blue eyes.

"Oh, you lived. Don't give me that. And I don't know where we're going -- pick a direction and go. To the south it's swampier, to the north are the kiokote plains. Of course, if you're not up for that, I understand." He looks around, exaggerating the motion, and then back to Grass.

"Sure," he says. Once a decision's been made, it's not hard to get Longstride to go along with it. He tosses his mane out of his eyes (sunbleached and clearly not taken care of) and then begins to walk north, keeping the sun to his left. Around them the golden grasses of the plains sway in the wind, dazzling the eyes. Small birds peep at one another, larger ones wheel overhead.

"I haven't been far," he admits at length; clearly the tales of Longstride conquering the plains have been embellished. "Long enough to feel what's called the Ache. The swamp pulling at your bones, telling you to come back." His voice goes distant; he is remembering it, perhaps, as if he was there. The feel that settled into his joints and threatened to pull him apart. "It feels like you're on fire. And then I met the kiokote. They're fast -- she ran and I couldn't catch up to her, no matter what I did."

"Just passed by. It's -- huge. Big. The water stretches all the way to the horizon, farther than you can see. One big flat blue space." Longstride shrugs, ambling through the tall grasses; not only are there holes in the grasslands that could snap an ankle, there's razor-grass that could cut an unlucky kimeti to ribbons. "If I had to pick between the plains and the ocean, I'd pick the ocean. Lots of water, lots of space, no Ache. The kiokote were fun to talk to, interesting to learn about... but I prefer space."

Longstride grins. The effect is striking. It's as if Grass has suddenly offered him every pretty doe in the Swamp, a lifetime supply of the freshest water and sweetest berries, and the moon and sun. "You can't do anything with the space, sure, but you can see it, and sometimes you're the only kimeti there. The only one you can see for miles. It's nice."

He lopes through the grass in a long ground-eating trot; it might be hard to keep up with, because it has been endlessly perfected by traveling hither and yon. "And listen -- you can come with me anywhere I go. You're always welcome. You have other siblings, but I haven't met them. So you're the first."