Common

you shouldn’t walk where the hemlock grows

The effect of the curious stallion - who seemed younger than Faolain had originally thought - was immediate and a relief. He mirrored her prancing gesture, dancing in place over the yellowing autumn grass, and Faolain was reminded of Ailill teaching her to waltz. Though this was a very different tempo and a very different dance altogether, the principle was the same: it was a release of energy, and the opportunity to create or strengthen a bond.

The young stallion hardly needed encouraging when Faolain bolted. He turned out to be an excellent competitor, if one could call it a competition. There was no finish line or defined course, no real rules. Faolain liked that the stranger sometimes passed her, and when he moved to cut her off, she squealed and ducked her head toward him, but there was no real fire in the actions; her teeth only closed around air, and though her ears flicked about excitedly, they never buried into her inky mane.

She could have run like this for hours. Her body was a well oiled machine, and it felt good to use it for its intended purpose, but she did eventually slow. Her breath came in steady, deep gasps as she switched to a lofty trot, then a brisk walk. She turned, and let the stallion catch up before once again dancing in place, but she did not bolt this time. She felt much better; far more open and friendly, far less grumpy. She still had a bit of mischief, however.

”Thank you for lending me your energy,” she said amicably, settling with one hind leg cocked lazily as she caught her breath in rhythmic puffs. ”You looked like you had some to spare.” Faolain reached low with her head, stretching in an almost feline manner, before straightening and shaking herself out. She took a moment to appraise the stranger, enjoying that she didn’t have to crane her head to meet his eye. Politely she reached forward to exchange breaths in greeting. ”Do you live on the Crossing?” she asked. She could never tell who was new here, as she rarely visited the huge central isle, but she was pleased to note that he did not smell of the Lagoon. Not that this was surprising, as Lagoon stallions were almost always foul in attitude as well as scent.

”I am Faolain, of the Ridge,” she added, almost as an afterthought. Perhaps the race had been a bit too distracting; she was still feeling the exhilaration, and it made it just a bit difficult to focus.

mare | black | 14hh | akhal-teke