Willfur
The grass of the plains billows in rolling, yellow-green capped waves as far as an oblong eye can see. An early morning breeze rushes across their newly seed-topped stems, unbroken by tree or rock or rise, sweeping freely forward until it crashes unexpectedly across the wide face and chest of Willfur. He inhales deeply, savoring the scents of spring: honeysuckle, blackberries, growth. He pans his eyes across the horizon, first one way, then the other, his satellite ears tipping forward.
So much open space!
An itch to run seeps up from the soles of his hooves, creeping higher along the curve of his fetlocks, setting his sparse tail to whisking across his hocks, as if such a motion could brush away the feeling of wildness, the sudden surge of energy crackling across his skin. He was made to run. His entire genus was founded on the ability to sprint away from danger, and, while he knows full well that his personal ancestry specialized much later and in strength rather than speed, he's neither so far off the original evolutionary path nor so old as to eschew such simple, primal joys.
Not yet, anyway.
With a self-indulgent squeak he plunges forward, kicking out his heels behind and beside himself each time his forelegs reach to pull and carry his hefty mass, the tiny bell twined into his tail ringing a sharp, staccato melody over the bass of his hooves, rising and falling with each rollicking leap.
It's fun and it feels good to stretch his muscles, loosen his tendons and ligaments. What does it matter to him if he looks silly, nearly 1300 pounds of heavy mule gallivanting full speed across the flatlands, his massive ears flapping forward and back atop his head like broken rudders on a ship, unable to check or right their course through the prairie sea.
Full speed ahead!
