The Merchant of Venice

"You're quite used to this?"

"As easy as breathing, Prince. Become one with the horse, I once heard it said."

He'd heard it by hanging around the stablehands of Mor Ardain, which was the closest to the palace he'd ever have been able to get. Why Addam had never ridden, considering his close friendship and kinship and goldship (that is to say, walletship, but then there was apparently such a thing as a racehorse) with the preeminent pre-emperor at the time of their joint childhoods.

Whatever. Didn't matter. They were bareback now, since you couldn't fit two on the same saddle, and also, who had the time?

Even if desert fever's haunt hadn't yet struck the unwasted plains of Chansagh, they'd determined that it would be foolish to waste the time struggling to cross them when they could simply saddle up (you know, metaphorically) and ride.

Lora with Brighid. Jin with Haze. Hugo with Aegaeon. Mythra, because she had insisted, on her own.

So that just left the prince and his tagalong. Both, without so saying, were happy to oblige.

Now, Minoth would have wanted to lead from the rear, had there been reins, but as there weren't any, he had to resort to directing Addam to hang on by the middle (by the very own grabbable waist) while he minded the mane.

Lora was well ahead. Jin rode at a steady pace, knowing that Haze would prefer a smooth gait even if she wouldn't voice it, and the imperial contingent trotting painfully slow.

Addam's royal mount, meanwhile, kept stepping on rocks and bucking up at every minor change in elevation. No matter how intent Minoth was to soothe, to deftly show his mastery, the Ponio proved intractable, incorrigible and inexactible.

"You're sure it wouldn't be faster to walk?"

Faster? Pssh. They'd be passing Aegaeon soon regardless, wouldn't they?

Minoth straightened up as the Ponio slowed, Addam's chin perched over his shoulder. "Got no comment either way - but where would be the fun?"