Reginleif stood on the upper ledge of the peak, her dark eyes cast down with contempt at the ledges below. Her new, so-called sisters lacked any of sort drive or ambition. Though she had been brought to the peak by unsatisfactory means, she had hoped that the women here would be more driven; that they would stand for something. From her towering sentry point, it looked like they were nothing more than a bunch of mares on a mountain side that spent their days eating and growing fat. That was fine for the weak hearted who sought refuge but what about those who supposedly fought for change and equality? Surely the Vulcans were not all on the run. Surely someone had some dredge of conviction.

The ranks of the Vulcans were skewed horribly in favour of the sneaky and uncommitted while Reginleif singlehandedly took up the mantle of warrior. What was it that the mares found so terrifying that they could and would not fight for themselves and others? Were they too weak? Too vain? Too proud to risk failure? The Vulcan peak was supposedly known for its strong mares (brutish she’d even heard) so where were they? Where were her fellow warriors who would fight with iron teeth and immovable strength?

A snort left her nostrils. This situation was is in dire need of rectification.