MAY THE SECOND BITE YOU IN THE BREAST

Night time on the peak was usually a peaceful affair, the normal sounds being the low murmur of voices and the whistle of the wind. Geirdriful had taken up high on one of the various ledges she had claimed from Reginleif when the freckled warrior woman had left. Her back hoof was cocked, and her ears splayed as she took a few moments rest between guard duties. It wasn’t like the peak needed much defending anyway, it had been a long time since there had been any threats; equine or otherwise.

The bandit faced girl stirred at the sound of an angry male voice and her posture immediately stiffened, ears perking up and swivelling to locate either the source of the voice, or to confirm that it had just been her half-asleep imagination. That possibility had barely a moment to be entertained, however, when a terrified squeal cut through the air like a knife. In that instant, it seemed like even the wind fell silent. Geirdriful knew whose voice that was and she could not imagine why anyone would try to harm the innocent girl.

The dunalino’s ears flicked back and she leapt down from her ledge, stray stones rattling down the side of the mountain in her wake. She did not acknowledge the sound, however, and barely acknowledged the childish voice of another filly. She heard what was important though; You hurt us. In the darkness, she could only make out the outlines of the two fillies huddled together – though the unknown one did not appear to frightened, only angry - but not as angry as Geirdriful.

There were two stallions, their silhouettes and scents completely foreign to her. She pinpointed the aggressor. If it had not been for the paler stallion that stood on his other side, creating a chequered background for the black, he may have blended in fully with the shadows. She saw him though and it was not black that she saw.

It was red.

The bandit faced mare flew at the dark beast, her hooves scraping over the stone as she slid to a halt, roughly shoving her muzzle in his face. Her breath came out in hot, angry plumes and a single hoof stamped the ground. The sound echoed of the walls of the mountain, as if demanding its attention. Should the stallion try to step back from her, she would step forward “Consider your nex’ move, very carefully” she warned, “else i- will be a las’ move you ever make.” Her voice was gruff and low, and something akin to a growl.

In the back of her mind, she wondered if this was one on the Arabians from the dunes that Ysabel had mentioned.