Silence.

Cold wind played against Kincaid's nares, chilling the beast to the bones - a wind almost as frigid as the hearts of...

'Oh bollux. Shut it with the dramatics, you.'

His muscles ached. His legs longed to lash out... his hooves wanted to tear something, anything. But he did not move. He had held his position all night and well into the morning, crouched as best as a horse could crouch, kneeling on his knees while his hocks hovered just inches from the ground. His body was screaming with pain; every nerve in his system shouting almost audibly for him to lay down, to stretch out, to do something. But he did not move.

Silence. Stay still. Quiet.

And Kincaid was silent. He was silent to more than hearing... silent to every sense imaginable. His silence had come of years of physical training - excercises such as this one - which strengthened not only his muscles, but his hearing, his stealth, his alertness of himself and his surroundings. It was all a dance for him. The heightened senses - for who else could have a seagull land on his hide, unaware that the rock on which he perched was no rock at all... The enlightened knowledge - for who else could describe and name each of the seven rings which spread their rosy fingers over the sky at sunset...

...The silence.

'Eight hours and counting.'

Eight hours! For eight hours he had been lurking here in this absurd pose, waiting for heaven only knows what. His dappled hide had long since become a part of the round gray stones littering the beach, the one indistinguishable from the other. And, god damnit, his legs were starting to hurt!

Relenting, Kincaid began to slowly move his hind legs to a more comfortable position. At a pace the naked eye could not easily detect, his hind hooves inched - or centimetered, or milimetered even - forward, finding their ways through the soft dirt beneath the rocks, digging in to the earth where they would make no noise while his hocks began to lower themselves to more comfortable positions. All was going well... nearly there....

Clink.

Caid cursed to himself as his left hind hoof nicked a stone, making endless hours' work all for naught. The bird dozing on his flank roused and took wing, panicked, and Caid flopped to the ground, not much caring that stones dug into his belly.

'Damned old coot. Your pretty spotted hide will make a fine mat for some angry stallion's doorstep one day.'