He is in a desert.All around him the sand stretches to the dust-choked horizon. Ears flat against his head, nostrils closed and eyes squinted, he feels the sand sting his taut hide, feels grit under his hooves as he stands on top of a huge dune. It would easily dwarf even the grandfather trees in a swamp he has never visited, but is keenly aware of. He should be there. Instead, he is inexplicably here, baking under the sun.
There is a gentle vibration coming from under the sand that reaches up through his limbs and into his body, setting his teeth on edge. Somehow he knows this vibration is bad -- not unlike the subtle thrumming of an earthquake or a flood. Something under the sand, if anything can live down there, is coming for him.
Sedately, he descends the dune -- hooves skidding along, tail lashing against his flanks as he makes his shuffling, twisting way down. It makes his muscles sore and his back hurt; walking like this is unnatural. But somehow he knows without knowing that walking this way will keep him safe.
Walk without rhythm, it is said, and you won't attract the worm.
[apologies to Frank Herbert and Dune.]
