she mounts him like it's habit. palm on the hump, and she swings her leg over his back. smug, she then takes each horn into a hand. this is how it should be.

when the beast rights itself though, imenet realizes she has no control. she holds on not to direct him, but to not roll off, short legs having no grip.

she tries to bargain;

can't you-

but he is off - and with him, she.

it is a miserable, bouncing journey, which has imenet hooting in pain whenever nakhtmin leaps or descends too suddenly. the plains are a blur. the plains throw dust in her face. she decides to spit it at her mount - it flies into her eyes.

nakhtmin does not get his comedy until they've stopped. she'd wish it a dismount, but in truth the change in speed takes the last of imenet's balance, and the horns slip from her fists as the ground greets her.

she lands in a heap, legs over head, making miserable little sounds. pain is everywhere.