I love you more in my head

but I’ll love you better when I’m dead

⬡ ⬡ ⬡
Naydra stands on the jagged edge of one of the Peak’s many teeth. Her furious yellow eyes carve canyons through the high altitude forests and the resilient carpets of grass that survive even beyond the treeline. The sisters roam across the slopes, but Naydra’s gaze lands on the group of stallions tucked into the shelter of a rocky overhang.

Her lip curls in disgust.

So much potential, wasted.

Naydra’s hooked ears slip back as she makes her way down to the belt between the tree line and bare stone. Her young daughter, who had climbed the Peak’s spine behind her with more skill than she might have expected from a weanling, follows confidently behind. Her tiny hooves unseat a few pebbles, which clatter down toward the tough, wild grass.

“Sisters.”

It’s not a command, or even a call. Naydra’s voice hardly raises above a conversational volume, but she knows the closest Peak mares will hear, and the attention will spread. She waits, watching the ears prick and the eyes glance up, her heart filling with fervor for every soul who perceives her. The rain drums soothingly against the unforgiving earth, and runs in rivulets down the coal-black mare’s legs. Her starlight mane darkens to a storm gray and plasters to her neck and face, and in the darkening twilight her gaunt and spindly shape is exaggerated and fearsome. Her hooked ears lift slowly from her sodden hair and come together above her crown in a dark and devilish halo, and she smiles at the women of the Peak with all the love in the world, her face glowing with pride and affection.

“Sisters,” she hisses again, drawing them forward if they want to hear, urging them closer with the curled and beckoning talon of her whisper.

Naydra

mare. 16hh. silver black. rougaru x visurix.