Not even the stars are visible, blanketed under a low ceiling of thick clouds. It means that any kimeti unlucky enough to be out of its den or not fully asleep is doomed to a night of uncomfortable twitching and turning, complaining and sweating and waiting out the dawn. One of these unfortunates has never had anyone to tell her about the heat, or how to escape it and find relief in thick mudholes or shallow pools. Just a few weeks old and unwise to the ways of the swamp, Sparrowhawk finds herself stumbling over tangled cypress roots, hooves sore and tired, wishing to find a nice place to lay down and sleep. Nevermind that there are crocodiles and the lynxes prowl at night; she is tired, alone, and it is hot enough that her breath hangs damply in front of her face and her sweat drips from her tail and ears, rolling into her eyes from time to time.
Eventually the little copper colored foal finds a dense tangle of vines and low-hanging tree branches with a tiny clearing in the middle, barely big enough to fit in, and slips into the small open space. Tail lashing around behind her in irritation, she bleats out a protest and considers whether this will be her place to sleep. It's not comfortable; it's full of thorns and jutting roots and it's hot, but dawn can't be far away.
Nearby, Longstride finds himself adventuring again, nevermind the fact that it is the middle of the
night hot enough to make him gasp for breath and set his flanks heaving. He is following something he saw some time ago -- just after sunset a large white crane flew across his field of vision. He'd heard somewhere that cranes are lucky, and if the Swamp so chose to manifest a form, it would be a crane (perhaps a white one). Why then does this one keep tipping its head at him, ruffling its tail feathers, and beckoning him deeper into the swamp? Grunting to himself and wondering if this is a sign, and if so why given him, he keeps plunging deeper into the swamp, taking care to place his hooves on solid ground to avoid splashes. This is crocodile weather and they prowl for weak or stupid kimeti. He is neither, but it is their kind of night.Eventually the crane finishes its winding path through the Swamp, and in good time; Longstride can barely pick up his hooves for the oppressive heat, and he stands panting, head low and mouth open. The air isn't cool or refreshing, nor does it move, but he needs it and so sucks it greedily in. He would stand this way for as long as it took him if not for the crane's melodic trill from above his head. Looking up, the crane looks at him with reproach, tilting its head first one way and then the other as if to question his committment.
Giving the crane a Look, he ventures forward towards it. It's perched in a dense tangle of bracken, thick enough that only a foal could slip through; even so, no colt would tolerate the heat and humidity, the darkness and the mud, for very long. Giving the crane another look, he begins to push his way into the tangle, using his forehooves to crush down the dying and brittle vines and biting through the healthier ones, through to the center.
The crane trills again when something with glowing eyes peers up at the two figures, something that had made its way into the tiny open space. First instinct is to assume it's a crocodile or a lynx and Longstride backs away, ready to fight or bolt, until a tiny little voice speaks from within:
"It's hot."
If it hadn't been a foal, he might have said something snippy; as it is, Longstride blinks at the tiny, skinny rust-colored foal, her coat dimmed with muck, as if he's never seen a foal before.
Sparrowhawk blinks up at the buck who tore through the side of her little hidey-hole and then at the crane beside him. For a moment she thought he was a crocodile and had huddled down into the mud in terror -- instead, it's a buck! He's come to rescue her!
"I thought you were a crocodile!"
She clambers out of the small hole in a tangle of limbs and long tail and peers up at the buck. Longstride, peering back down at her (and feeling the crane leap down onto his back with a flutter of wings and long limbs), backs up and helps the little one out.
For a moment, he stands and looks at her -- and when the crane chirrups from its perch on his back, he sighs. But he can't turn away, not when the little foal is looking up at him so hopefully. Not when she's out here in the middle of nowhere, lost, and still so tiny.
"Come on," Longstride finds himself saying (though not without warmth in his voice). "Follow me. My name's Longstride."
It seems he has started on a new adventure.
