Salem. An island that built the strongest and most hardy of horses.
There was a time in her life, when Nyimara imagined the island to be nothing more than a wasteland of sand and rock where little grew and even less water could be found. That was when she had been ignorant and young, a time before she found herself calling the island home. The Hills had been her first experience with the island of Salem, and she learned quickly enough that the island was far more than uninhabitable.
Dark eyes scan over the expanse of land that lay before her. Like with the hills, Palm trees and Desert Willows dotted the landscape between rolling hills of sand and sage brush. Here and there, brightly colored desert lilies and devil’s claw broke the dull hues with bursts of bright colors. Small fluted ears tilt forward amid the tangle of her silver white mane as Nyimara let a heavy sigh escape her. For the first time since Nycol’s death, she was beginning to feel something beyond the overwhelming rage and numbing power of loss. The desert was hers.
A small smile tugs the corners of her ash dusted lips upward as the woman of mahogany picks her way down the rocky slope and towards the lush oasis that she spied earlier. Faded hoofprints and well worn pathways were the only signs she had seen thus far of the herd that had once gathered here. ”No matter.” she murmurs to herself, letting the dry zephyrs drag her voice away. If any still remained, they would find her when they were ready. It would be a waste to seek them out, especially if they had no desire to be found.
She moves with confidence, her finely dished head held high as her sweeping gaze surveyed the nutrient rich land before her. The oasis was much larger than it had first appeared. Mesquite grass and cotton tops grew in abundance, their feather soft ends brushing against her flank in passing. Beyond the stand of bottle brush, the trickle of water foretells of the river that lay hidden from view. Ivory banner switches against her sleek flanks. This would do.
As if the thought summoned him, Cato bursts from the thick cover of sagebrush behind her, his heels kicking up plumes of sand in his wake. Dark ears rotate backwards as the red and white colt screamed by her with a firm nip to her shoulder. Normally, Nyimara might find herself chasing after him to retaliate in the battle of wills that had become common game to them, but today, today she was intent on looking less like the villain and more like the royal regent she determined to be. ”Cato!” she commands, angling her head to fix him with a steady glare. ”Stay with me.” she finishes, pivoting around a large creosote bush to keep the rambunctious boy in her line of sight. Nycol’s death had scarred her without her knowing it. Though Cato was quick to tell her again and again that he could take care of himself (something that she knew damn well was not true just yet), Nyimara still found herself trying to keep the boy within eyesight or at least with Warduna as a babysitter for when she absolutely had to part them.
The spirited colt laughed and found himself racing along the sandy edge of the sluggish river, trailing waves of brown water in his wake. For a moment, Nyimara watched in silence as the colt prances and dances along the shoreline, marvelling in the carefree way in which he moved. He was young. No more than a few months old and still the world was a strange and glorious adventure. Cato saw no danger and Nyimara was determined to keep it that way, at least for a time longer.