Plurk paste

She remembers that he's heavy, but lighter than she expected, under the lazy heat and unblinking eye of the midday sun. His scent, curious and dry, had been a different sort of dry than the dust cloying her nostrils, much like the wind generated by the pounding of her hooves on the parched ground had been different than the wind that flowed with the stampede they were headed toward. They were all exciting things, new information to take in through heightened senses, and they'd all shared in the same dangerous story -- she remembers him, and as she does, she remembers danger, and she loves the little thrill it sends down her spine.