Shararat is on her way to investigate the sheer drop the river itself was falling over, curious to see how high up she really is, when a horse pulls herself up onto the flat, flat plain the black mare had been running all over for the better part of the morning. Shararat keeps moving, intending to say hello, then halts just as the painted mare turns and startles to see her. "Careful!" she cries, watching the other’s hooves press a little too close to the edge. What a horrible thing, to want to see the drop and almost witness someone else make that fall. It is a relief when the girl strides forward. She’s almost tempted to back away and see if she can prompt the brown and white girl even further away from the edge.
"So sorry," she says, but smiles. "I understand why you’d not be expecting anybody. But look at you!" She gestures toward the girl’s skinned knees. "You made that climb, and with only a little trouble it seems." She pauses a moment to appreciate the great swaths of color all over her new companion, and the way her black and white mane and tail accent her coat. She especially likes the light in her hazel eyes.
Reminded of her own childhood and the curiosity in her that had never really been sated, Shararat nods toward the open plain and asks, "I came up here to run— it’s wonderful with the wind. Flat and open and empty for miles and miles, it seems. What brought you to the top?" It’s not the top of the mountain, of course; that rises grim and gray and silent in the distance. But for now it’s high enough for Shararat. She introduces herself with a wider grin: "I’m Shararat, by the way." |