Common

Usually, nothing short of an emergency would have pulled Fell away from the Bay during the fall. Even now, he doesn’t love the idea of leaving his herd behind, but at least he isn’t leaving them unprotected. Zurok is a reliable warrior and Canis is both trustworthy and of his own blood. He doesn’t even necessarily mind that Raegar has been snooping around his territory; the overo stallion hasn’t taken anything from him this time, and he hasn’t even caused any panic among the Bay mares. They’re all used to him by now, Fell assumes – except, perhaps, Mrgasira, but he doesn’t expect her to get over Raegar’s first attack anytime soon, if ever.

He is reluctant to leave, but reluctant to stay, as well. Fell can’t do anything about the season, and can only do so much about his own physical response to it. He won’t risk harming his own mares if he can avoid it, but he’s been a menace lately and he can tell. It was simply time for him to remove himself from the Bay and cool off.

Stray mares on the Crossing were fair game, anyway.

The swim does next to nothing to actually cool him down, even though the waters around Tinuvel are nearly frigid with the Northern island’s early winter. When he arrives on the Crossing, he is practically steaming with exertion, and his energy is – if anything – strengthened by the journey. He prowls for a while like an excited dog, trotting loftily around the borders of the Commons with his tail lashing at his salt-swirled flanks. He keeps his head low, rather than proudly arching his neck like he would have if he had been preening for one of the Bay mares. The truth is that he is not proud to be here at all, only begrudgingly resigned to the reality of his nature, and somewhat validated by the knowledge that this is better than the alternative.

Fell responds at once to the call that rings out over the Commons. His head snaps to one side, and his predatory gaze zeroes in on a painted gray mare who seems just as worked up as he is. Suddenly, there is no one else around; or at least, no one else that Fell cares to register beyond the little gray mare filling his vision.

He changes course so abruptly that his twisting hooves carve crescent moons out of the soil as he pivots. Her energy, even from this distance, is intoxicating. He approaches her at a choppy canter, not bothering to gently slow his pace as he draws near, instead only stopping as though sparing her bodily harm with the momentum of his body is an afterthought. He slams on the brakes, kicking up clods of dirt and grass, and rudely shoves his nose into her space to drink in her scent. The musk of sweat and excitement that roll off of her painted body activate Fell, and now he does preen, backing out of her space only enough to coil the thick muscles of his neck and bring his bearded chin to his chest. He strikes the ground between them (what little space he has allowed) with a forehoof and lets out a deep, shuddering blow from flared nostrils.