Geirdriful stood tall under the black mare’s steady gaze, though inside she wanted to cower away from it. She was not afraid, not in the fear for your life kind of way but she was afraid of failure; of saying or doing something that could potentially cloud the mare’s judgement of her. These mares were warriors, they stood for something and weren’t afraid to fight for it. In a small way, she idolised them; wanted to become one – if the vague stories her mother told and her own imaginations were true.

A small smile found her lips and she nodded as the mare confirmed she was one of the warriors. Geirdriful knew nothing about the different ranks within the Vulcans though she understood there were different kinds of warriors. Not all horses were born fighters; her sister, while perfectly capable of defending herself and enjoying battle, was better suited to planning. She could pass through any territory unseen with the greatest precision. She would have been good at sneaking mares away – in a way the ones who tried to sneak from Lion Eye’s father were not. It was just a shame that the dunalino’s sister was only so good at getting around by stealth because she was deathly afraid of conversation (or otherwise) with strangers.

Geirdriful listened in intent silence to the shining warrior speak, bobbing her head lightly at every question and narrowing her eyes resolutely. She understood that some stallions did indeed treat mares as property but she also thought most mares were given power over the herd. ”I do, bu- I faw mares were already the leaders and s’allions are jus- a pro’ec’ors. I ge- day claim mares some’imes, which isn’ righ-, bu- I faw day answer a mares af’er ah“. If that was not how it worked, then perhaps she could understand better why her mother and sister shunned finding a more permanent home than the meadow.