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Post by RoyalPain13 on Mar 26, 2011 23:47:33 GMT -6
I've been through the dessert on a horse with no name. . .
The buckskin color of his tobiano pelt stood out only barely among the tan And brown runs of an old indian village. There were white man influences, not that the bake inhabitants today could tell, and there wee obviously native american objects. He stood, square in the center of a sweat lodge and examined it's adornments in silent speculation. He had been born in a distant land, once privy to the world of humans, until he found -and never left- the vale.
He turned, slowly, to take in every inch of his surroundings. He wanted to occupy his time whilst he was trapped in this abomination. While he had survived the rough winter of the vale - his first such winter, he had not met it's summers until now. The natives insisted that the falling torrents he was now witnessing were completely normal. He had been told, also, that while the rain was cold and mild in density the hail was painful- and a bad sign. Hail was what had driven him here out of hits herd lands. Hail and the ominous funnel void he had watched begin its formation. He couldn't tell if itd be preemie, or maybe never spawn, but he took shelter in this quaint little valley with the satisfying knowledge of one mountain range guarding him to the east, one large river to the north, a july valley to his west and the canyons to his south. If you asked him, the ruins were perfect shelters from tornadoes as they could not enter. They had to form first in the valley then rise o. utHe had witnessed t tornadoes cross whiteness without reaching three ground. They simply. . . Flew across.
Now he lowered his exhausted figure, having run desperately to get here, and leaned against the wooden structure that had once shoppers human asses. The air in the sweat lodge slowly thickened with heart and humidity as the ground cooled from the moisture using across it. Electricity lit three sky with finger trails as nimble as a mountain goat. He covered and closed his eyes, refusing to look outside any longer.
it felt good to get putt of the rain. . .
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