Post by Forte on Jun 10, 2010 10:33:04 GMT -5
Overhead, the cypress whispered in the breeze. Here and there a brave bit of birdsong piped up, or a snake moved lazily from its perch on a log. Other than that, all was quiet and lazy in summer's heat, the air pregnant with humidity. The light shifted and dappled the marsh, shifting as the leaves shifted, fluttering a little in the stiff wind. It picked up slightly and whistled through the close trunks, before a decrescendo into a murmuring breeze. The little rivulets of streams that cut through the marsh burbled happily in rejoicing the coming of summer. It was one of those perfect days, before the flies and mosquitoes had really infected the swamp, and when all that lived seemed at peace with itself and with nature. A heron splashed in the salt marsh, beak down and buried in a clump of sea pickles and brine, raising its head every so often to study the quiet marsh.
All of a sudden, with a movement like a flash of lightning, the bird tensed and became alert. It seemed about to take off, but did a quick double take before it did so, surging with it's powerful, broad wings into low flight. It was gone, vanished, before whatever had spooked it even arrived, although mere seconds later the sound of hooves hitting the wooden planks of a bridge rang through the air. A gray ghost appeared on the horizon, shimmering for a moment in the heat before resolving it's frame into that of a great stallion, knees and chest coated with water that his hooves had splashed up in the deep marsh grass. the stallion was galloping with its neck stretched out, not near so fast as a racing horse but with good speed all the same. His ears were laid back and his eyes and nostrils wide and flaring with apparent fear.
It was quite plain why Gatsby was so afraid, and it was because of the man who was on his back. He was not a bad rider, his fingers buried in the mane up the ridge of Gatsby's neck, and his form was fairly good. His appearance, however, would have been enough to scare most animals, and combined with his air it was quite frightening indeed. A horse, of course, does not really mind what his owner looks like so long as they are calm and kind and know what they are doing. This man had the air of one who knew what they were doing, at least, but whatever that was it wasn't very nice. His very countenance was ferocious, searching for any small flaw and attempting to ferret it out violently. The silvery spurs attached to his boots were digging into Gatsby's sides as they flew over yet another bridge.
Morgan leaned forward slightly, not so much urging as demanding that the horse keep up the brutal pace. Ahead was another little stream, this one with higher banks, which it was clear that he intended to jump. Gatsby knew this, and he was willing enough to go over it, although the approach was tricky and the jump itself treacherous. There was no doubt that he could make it, and in fact that he could make it very well for another rider. As it were, however, he would have liked to slacken the pace a bit so that he could get a better idea of where he would be landing and where leaping. Nonetheless, he jumped when he had to, and he made it well enough. The other bank, however, was extremely slippery, and in landing his front legs went quite out from under him, and although he didn't fall his gait became sloppy afterward. Morgan drew him violently to a halt, but Gatsby didn't mind the pain in his mouth so much, only stood there shaking.
All of a sudden, with a movement like a flash of lightning, the bird tensed and became alert. It seemed about to take off, but did a quick double take before it did so, surging with it's powerful, broad wings into low flight. It was gone, vanished, before whatever had spooked it even arrived, although mere seconds later the sound of hooves hitting the wooden planks of a bridge rang through the air. A gray ghost appeared on the horizon, shimmering for a moment in the heat before resolving it's frame into that of a great stallion, knees and chest coated with water that his hooves had splashed up in the deep marsh grass. the stallion was galloping with its neck stretched out, not near so fast as a racing horse but with good speed all the same. His ears were laid back and his eyes and nostrils wide and flaring with apparent fear.
It was quite plain why Gatsby was so afraid, and it was because of the man who was on his back. He was not a bad rider, his fingers buried in the mane up the ridge of Gatsby's neck, and his form was fairly good. His appearance, however, would have been enough to scare most animals, and combined with his air it was quite frightening indeed. A horse, of course, does not really mind what his owner looks like so long as they are calm and kind and know what they are doing. This man had the air of one who knew what they were doing, at least, but whatever that was it wasn't very nice. His very countenance was ferocious, searching for any small flaw and attempting to ferret it out violently. The silvery spurs attached to his boots were digging into Gatsby's sides as they flew over yet another bridge.
Morgan leaned forward slightly, not so much urging as demanding that the horse keep up the brutal pace. Ahead was another little stream, this one with higher banks, which it was clear that he intended to jump. Gatsby knew this, and he was willing enough to go over it, although the approach was tricky and the jump itself treacherous. There was no doubt that he could make it, and in fact that he could make it very well for another rider. As it were, however, he would have liked to slacken the pace a bit so that he could get a better idea of where he would be landing and where leaping. Nonetheless, he jumped when he had to, and he made it well enough. The other bank, however, was extremely slippery, and in landing his front legs went quite out from under him, and although he didn't fall his gait became sloppy afterward. Morgan drew him violently to a halt, but Gatsby didn't mind the pain in his mouth so much, only stood there shaking.