They camped without a fire. All curled miserably in their cloaks, hiding their faces from the pouring onslaught. Halfway through the night, Picket could no longer ignore the feel of water coursing his barrel sides. He sent droplets spraying through the air with a fluid ripple of his hide, snorted angrily to himself, sneezed when he inhaled more water.
That was the final straw. Picket took off running.
It was a pleasure, galloping through the pouring rain. Lightening lit the terrain in flashes, reflecting his features grimly. He reared and screamed his challenge to the sky. His voice echoed off the clouds, the hills, reverberated around him. The horse ran, eating the miles under his hooves, for a blissful while neither Cuiddal, Picket nor faerie.
Near dawn, the rain finally ceased its at
