I’m riding a magnificent white charger, his pink mane groomed and decorated with ribbons.
He holds his head high, obviously glad I chose him. He speeds his gait from a rough trot to a smooth canter.
Suddenly, a thud shakes his post, throwing his magic off kilter. His canter becomes a wild gallop. He snorts, and for the first time I notice red staining his nostrils.
“Please, slow down,” I beg. Centripetal force threatens to pull me off his saddle and throw me into dangers that are whipping past so fast I can’t identify them. I grip with all my strength round his neck of shiny muscles.
Between sprays of red droplets shooting from his open mouth, he gasps, “Only you can stop us.”