†
Temblor stands on the soft sands of Paradise and tests his right hip, deliberately putting pressure on the leg to see how deep the pain reaches. He can feel the bruise, recognizes the ache of healing, and heaves his front half up in a small rear to test the full capacity of his hind leg. There's a dull throb, a noticeable pull in the muscles, but overall he feels steady. He returns to earth with a thump. Damn lucky.
He's had it with the storms on Atlantis. And, he wants to push himself beyond his patrols, keep himself limber after the disaster in the Ridge: the dappled gray stallion plunges into the salty tide and strikes out for the Crossing. Swimming does him good, as does emerging on the temperate shores of the central island. He has missed the open, rolling fields and generous gaps between the trees, where the wind can twine freely through grass and hair alike. Temblor canters through the Common, stretching his legs and reveling in all the open space. The air here is so much lighter, too— he bucks midstride, kicking out exuberantly, and pulls up short as a sharp pain twinges in his hip. He rests for a moment, breathing hard as the twinge fades to a throb, and resolves to tread more carefully for the rest of his visit here. It wouldn't do to lame himself, especially away from Paradise.
After a moment he moves on, heading north. During his year on the Crossing, Temblor came across two territories on opposite ends of the isle that appeared to be solely inhabited by one sex or the other. The bachelor herd to the south was no surprise: he had run with the boys in his day before he chose to step up and challenge a band stallion for his hearth and home, and recalls his time as a bachelor with fondness. He learned much running with a band of men, and hopes someday to send some of his own sons off to the Crossing.
It is the territory to the north which has baffled him. He has never heard of a group of mares living all on their own, no stallions to speak of, and he has been trying to understand the purpose of such a group. It seems strange to him that it would function the same way as a bachelor herd, as mares don't have the same motivations as stallions to hone their fighting skills— though perhaps there is some practicality in grouping together exclusively to learn defensive combat in case some danger should arise to the herd, and learning that as well as leadership skills from more experienced women— perhaps they are the surplus daughters of already established families, of whose trade would do little to strengthen alliances, or perhaps they are the young mares from families without influence who are determined to make influence— the possibilities swirl through his head as he nears the foothills of the Peak, trying to make sense of a herd consisting exclusively of mares. Perhaps they are a direct mirror to the bachelors after all, practicing the skills of mares among mares before they decide to make a home in a band somewhere. Temblor can't imagine anything else.
Harboring these potentially dangerous delusions, Temblor climbs the nearest foothill before pausing atop its gently rolling crest. He leans his weight forward and gives his hip a rest, which has maintained a dull throb during his walk through the Crossing, and looks up in appreciation at the towering mountain itself. This is a beautiful land, much more to his liking than the humid, wet environment of Atlantis. Though he can feel the full force of the sun on his dappled back, it is a pleasant heat compared to the searing gaze of the bright eye over Paradise. Content to rest awhile longer, he closes his eyes and leans a little into the wind, inordinately pleased to feel its gentle fingers sleek over his damp body.
TEMBLOR
& swallows you whole
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