Under Beam and Breeze [open]

[Koray Windcall]

:17 Summer, 510AV:
Summer, as it opened over the Sea of Grass, was a sight one could never really tire of. In the amber shades that sunlight painted across the high grass as evening languidly swept across the sky, beneath the wind’s laughing paths as it rushed over the plains and caught in a rider’s hair and clothes and over the land that unfurled near-unending beyond the horizon—somewhere in-between those there was all a Drykas, or indeed any man, could ever need.

Oh, Koray had missed this, however short the time he had been away from it: the unmatched thrill of racing over those green expanses, dark Sanem lean and agile under him as she made a mockery of space and distance, so unlike his first strider in her slightness and fleetness of foot yet still undeniably right for him. Under his hand, splayed wide on the mare’s gleaming coat, he could feel the play of muscle and sinews, almost fancied he could feel as her the ground under her hooves, the rush of air over her fine head. Faster, he whispered, and over the wind she heard him; leapt forward, in a smooth lunge that made grass part before her as though she were queen in her kingdom, and owed respect by all. Not full speed, no, for he was not so foolish as to tire her so soon, but getting there—a brief flight of fancy, for those moments when time lay suspended between the beats of her gait. Perhaps he would try her, and himself, at the Great Race next year, for surely she would hold her own there, even against those fastest of striders.

But that was a long time from now. He breathed in, eyes closing for a second. A passing shadow overhead made him look up, and smile, at the lazy flight of a hawk in flight as it tightened its circles and dove for prey. Away from the bustle of the Pavilion now, with nothing but his wits and his horse, he was more at home than anywhere else; the green beads woven into his tunic and threaded through his hair and Sanem’s flowing mane were mere confirmation of it. You should have been born to Amethyst, he had been told once, and had laughed at it.

No, without the hunt—the tracking, the understanding, the challenge—he would not have been himself. Even now he was smiling, the barest touch on Sanem’s flanks prompting her into slowing down to a sedate trot, for the sight that greeted him to the west: a herd of elks, nursing females and long-limbed calves and haughty bull standing watch over it all, outlined in gold by the sun that wove on behind.

It looked like his search, at least for now, was over. He thumbed the back of the shortbow strapped to the side of the yvas as he swept green eyes over the herd until they alighted on a few likely targets: younger females, not quite fully grown and not too big. Easier to kill, and to bring back.

Now, it would just be patience, skill, and a bit of luck, and if Caiyha was willing, he would come home with something to show for it.