2. You are suddenly, urgently parched, and must drink at the oasis. Even if you have already indulged there, this time you realize as the water hits your stomach that perhaps things are not exactly as they seem. You are first drowsy, then sleepy. The effects cannot be mitigated: you fall asleep--but first you feel an urgent need to lie down at the foot of the tower. He ran through the dunes and the sand for the long time, aimless because his sight could not lead him anywhere. It was only the scent of water and oasis that was keeping him moving in a fixed direction. Otherwise, he might not have moved much at all unless spurred on to do so by prey. He tried to fight the urge to find prey that he was sure was only hiding here in the sands. There was always prey because all creatures in the desert were resilient enough to survive under the unforgiving sun. That was what they were made for. He fought it though and so he ran, filling his ears with the howl of the wind rushing past, a contrast to the pound of his blood that only reminded him of his dream.
He ran because that was all he knew to do. He could run and he could hunt. Here in the desert that was all he was. He couldn't dance because he couldn't coordinate with the others because of his lack of sigh. His lack of sight kept him from creating and appreciating art. He could sing, but he didn't have a voice made for it. His was one of disuse, tasting of sand rather than water, rustling like leaves rather than cleaving like a juicy cactus. He was an Acha, but he wasn't the Acha that Acha could keep in their fold. There were plenty who hunted nd sang, but he only hunted. So he had left.
He had left he land that had stolen his sight and began his lifelong obsession with that perfect arc of red sailing through the sky as his hoof came striking down on the swiftest pry. He hunted for that red arc for that moment of perfect beauty and clarity that he couldn't achieve because his eyes saw only in grey and in fuzziness. The difference between a splash of water and splash of blood was barely noticeable without the vivid colors that had stained his dreams. He did not even know what colors made up his pelt. He could not make out his markings though Omen had described them to him before. He could not see his children's full beauty, nor Omen's, nor Old Wound's, he only had his dream and he had to chase it.
Omen said he didn't and he wanted to, but what else could he do. Two things haunted him in life: the life-affirming blood of the kill and his own destined death that had been averted through luck and chance. He should have died rather than live with these sightless eyes. So absorbed in his thoughts was he, he nearly missed the moment he stepped into the oasis, but the difference in the air was unmistakable. He remembered the brief time that he had spent in an oasis in his youth and remembered the taste of water that was not being stored by a cactus. Pools were clearer her than in the Swamp where most collected water tended to also hold some mud.
He was suddenly struck by a thirst so strong the only comparison he had was to when he had first stumbled his way into Acha civilization as a blind foal, unable to see and desperate for sustenance. He could not resist the urge to drink so he did. The immediate onset of drowsiness sent him panicking though. The water shouldn't have done that, but no matter what he did, the feeling did not go away.
He stumbled around the oasis until he fell to the ground next to something hard and smooth. He was trapped by sleep then and when he woke, he remembered nothing. The only thing that remained was sand that he blinked away from his eyes and the urge to run and to hunt, to fly like he could over sand and dune.