ASHA & NYMERIA
A soft stirring off to her right prods Nymeria's attention like a hot poker. Flinching with surprise, she immediately swings her head around to survey the intruder, ears already flattened. It is he, of course. She had expected that, but she cannot say whether she is relieved or otherwise irritated to see him. She has no desire to be friendly to him, at least, even though it appears as though he has hardly slept all night either. She side-eyes him, keeping herself firmly between him and her children, and when he speaks, she cotinues to glare at him for several long moments in silence.
One ears flicks back at the feeling of lips on her teat, but otherwise she does not move a muscle. "I am not your friend," she tells him in a low, terse voice, and says no more. She had been taught to only speak when body language by itself could not suffice, and to never offer her name to those she did not trust. While the talkative culture of the islanders has had an influence on her in regards to the former, she still firmly believes in the latter. Her name is something she had earned by surviving the harsh frozen wasteland of her home; it is a treasure, and not something she intends to give up lightly. Even the father of her children does not know her name, and she intends to keep it that way.
Behind the mare and curled up into a tight little ball, the spotted filly dreams of rabbits. There were a few of the twitchy little creatures at home occasionally, and the first time she had seen one, they had instantly become a facet of her imagination. In her dream, however, they are all gone, and in their absence, her ears have grown a meter in length until they are grossly ernormous. She is a rabbit now: the only one left! Her new ears flap to and fro atop her head as if they have minds of their own, making her panic: it is only when she opens her eyes and realizes her sister is tugging at them, making them move, that she understands she had been dreaming, and that her ears have probably always been a normal length.
She stands up on her strong young legs: they are no longer trembling, having been thoroughly rested. Half-heartedly she lifts a foreleg and paws dismissively at her sister as if to say 'not now'; then she eyes her mother, who is standing in front of them and yet again hiding the strange black male from their view, as she had done the night before. They are not fighting, at least, so she quickly loses interest in their quiet conversation and instead turns her attention to the tree beside them. In the new light of day, she can see all the grooves and ruts of the textured bark, and it fascinates her. There were trees in the arch, of course, but they were near the southern border, and her dam had never taken them to visit them.
After a moment's hesitation, she sticks out her pick tongue and licks the bark, then regrets it instantly.
WEANLING; DRAFT MIX; GREYING BLACK BLANKET; 17'2HH WFG
7; DRAFT MIX; DAPPLE GREY; 16HH; PLAYED BY SHIVA |