Flame Runner surfaced from the depths of his dream, gasping, a cold sweat running down his face. Peering over at the fire, it had nearly died down, but a small flame still existed, still keeping a small warmth as the pony was curled up next to it in his sleeping bag.
He didn't know why, but something about that dream disturbed him. What was going on there? Why was the only thing I could see was white? Who was calling me, and why did they want me to wake up?
A prickly feeling started to rise up his spine, like a spider with it's eight stiff, jagged legs was climbing up his back.
Something wasn't right. He just knew it.
Flame Runner spotted his weapons lying against a nearby tree, his sword and knives taunting him from a distance. His trusty bow and arrows was in his saddlebag, but would take too long to pull out.
He began to count down, his muscles in his legs preparing to make a mad dash toward his only protection, his hooves tensing up with power.
3... 2... 1...