I love you more in my head
but I’ll love you better when I’m dead
⬡ ⬡ ⬡
The sea is bitter cold against Naydra’s chest as she strikes out from Luthien. The Thicket is abyssal, dark; perfect. She loathes to leave it, but the coal-black mare cannot deny the simple truth of safety in numbers. A lone mare in an empty territory will attract prying eyes, sooner or later.
On the horizon, the grey outline of the Crossing sharpens in detail as Naydra nears. Winter on the main central isle is much the same as it is on Luthien. Bleak, grey, and barren — at least until the snows. It has not snowed on the Crossing yet, and Naydra’s hooves press into damp and wilted grass once she pulls herself off the beach. A few leaves cling pitifully on the branches overhead, but most litter the ground.
The black mare pauses to shake the sea water from her coat. Her tail, sodden and darkened to an unfortunate steel-grey, sways heavily around her hind legs. Before her, a creek winds its way through the Common, its silver-ribbon outline guiding Naydra’s eye to a mare.
A little mare, dark dappled grey, drenched and tangled and apathetic.
Naydra makes a beeline for her. The Commons are a lawless place, and the coal-black woman will not waste time while some brute or other snatches up such a vulnerable target. No, Naydra has a much better use for her.
Closing the distance between them, the silver mare slows. She drops her head companionably, delicate nostrils fluttering with a whicker of greeting. She looks over the arabian mare without hiding her gaze, and gives a tsk of sympathy.
“A new arrival, I see,” she says warmly, sidling close as though to offer her body heat. “You must be frightfully cold.” Her tone is friendly, welcoming — but her posture is possessive, demanding. She keeps a respectful distance from the stranger (lest she only succeed in pushing her away) but to any outsiders, her body language is clear: this one is mine.
Naydra
mare. 16hh. silver black. rougaru x visurix.
