Marceline watches the world go by from her spot at the edge of the Common, her discerning gaze flitting from horse to horse. She has been here since the first warm kiss of daylight pressed itself against the frost-covered meadow, melting away autumn's chilled embrace. She had stirred restlessly in the small hours of the morning, unable to sleep with thoughts of the Peak's impending election on her mind. If she is to be considered a worthy candidate to her sisters, she will have to do more than sit around and let pretty promises spout from her lips. So she'd stolen quietly away from her sleeping children and headed down the mountain, finding the shedding skeleton of an old oak to settle beneath.
The hours pass without event and Marceline's hope of finding a strong-headed woman to bring home grow dimmer. The pickings are slim today - as the red mare casts her gaze about she sees mostly young stallions, no doubt hoping to shove themselves desperately in front of the next pretty face they see. She must be giving off the right sort of energy if none of them have bothered to come talk to her, casting one look her way and quickly deciding it is not worth the effort.
Marceline shoots a particularly sharp glare at one boy who seems to be feeling bold, giving a satisfied snort when he quickly abandons any budding thoughts of engaging her in conversation and moves away to more hopeful prospects. She watches his backside as he retreats, but her gaze quickly shifts towards another, more interesting figure: a lone mare wandering through the common. She looks downtrodden, a mournful expression painted onto her delicate features as she headed deeper into the Common. She does not journey long, quickly picking out her own tree to settle beneath.
She doesn't appear the strong-headed mare Marceline hopes to bring back to the Peak, but even the dimmest of flames can be stoked into a forest fire if given the right conditions. With this in mind Marceline moves towards the mare's now supine figure. She comes to a halt several feet away, her hawkish gaze fixed on the woman's face. Never one for propriety, Marceline asks, "Why do you lay about looking sad, mon chérie?" by way of introduction, her tone the same as if she were inquiring about the weather, or what island the mare had come from. "There are better things you could do and better places you could be, you know."
Like coming with me. But the words are bitten back in favor of quietly settling her full attention on the young mare.
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