Not my finest post, I admit x3 word count; 368
A day into their journey, and the young man and his horse were already making good progress. The luperci nudged his horse on, and gently, they broke into a lazy trot. The day was fine, and the gale's were moderately subdued, giving way to a bright horizon. Already, it was starting to look like spring. The sun was hot on Frodo's bare back, and his thighs were getting wet. Confused, he looked down at his legs, and realised they were wet because his horse was sweating so much. It was no wonder, considering they'd been at a hard ride for a full day and night so far, without much of a break. And Strider, the horse, was fully tacked up, too. For once he had a saddle and bridle on, and it must have ached. Out of compassion for his friend, Frodo slowed down into a walk, directing his steed closer to the coast.
He knew this beach well. The shattered coast was one of his favourite places. He liked to relax there, and it held many fond memories. With a chuckle, he emerged himself in thoughts of the people he'd met along this very sand. Frodo was fond of people; he was just a people kind of guy, and they were usually fond of him. Or so he thought. At least, he'd only been in an argument twice. Once, when he had told his father the truth about his mother's love affairs, and the second time, he'd been beaten up on Inferni's border. But those memories were dead and gone, and he was a whole different person now. More grown up, and dignified.
As they drew closer to the sea, Frodo dismounted, and then leant over his stallion to remove the tack. He dropped the saddle and saddle bags aimlessly to the floor, unfastened the bridle, and then let his horse run along the raggedy beach. With a smile, Frodo collected some dry dirftwood, and soon he had a fire going. It was about time they had a little rest, anyway. The wolf motioned for his horse to lie down beside him while he himself sat cross legged in the sand, warming his hands over the blazing flames.
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