Itzl, the man

Breaking away from the group, Itzl rode out. Head low to the horse as he cut against the wind, carried by a Golden Arrow towards the herd. Holding on with the lightest of touches, the most subtle of movements he stood in his saddle, eyes closed against the fierce air. All he could feel was the rush of wind and the rhythmic, practised pulsing of his mount beneath him, something more comforting than his mother’s voice, more familiar than his own heartbeat; these moments were all he lived for, all he was bred for. The pain of releasing the moment dragged his spirit low as he chocked back the feeling; it was necessary to let go of the Passion that drove him or else he might never come out again. He would take the first kill today and claim the Redmans share, as was his right, but it was the chase that fuelled him.