Wind Born
The plains were a golden, light brown in Rohan, a clear sign that autumn finally arrived. The headstrong stallion ran wherever he chose, seemingly priding himself on his reach and extension.
The King and his son stood silently, their attention riveted to the horse as he turned and ran again. Every so often, he would leap and let out a whinny.
"He is certainly enjoying himself," the prince said with a laugh. The sound captured the attention of the beautiful white stallion.
"He knows his worth," the king said, looking admirably at the now still meara.
"What's his name?"
"Lightfoot."