Valley of Gold bring back the mares of diomedes

the rustling of the grain draws ingram's attention. his ears cup forth, alert, atop his skull and he begins to sniff the air. loudly. not bothering to be quiet. and why would he? he stands out among the golden waves like a hellhound. starkly out of place.

his hackles bristle softly, unable to make out the eyes he feels upon him. a soft flutter of a phantom hand against the nape of his neck.

and maybe it was his imagination. but the rustling is not a culprit of the wind.

he ghosts forward a few steps; a low rumble lingering in his throat. who's there? demands ingram.