The past few days have been long ones. Something deep within made Ragnfridr irritable; she kicked and she bit at anyone who neared her. Her ears were locked against her cranium, hidden in the mess of her mane. Ragnfridr stands among her favored section of trees, the golden light washing down upon her lighting up her battlescarred hide like it were a painting.

The mare, with the chance of seasons, had come into season, herself; the thought of baring offspring had soured her already delicate moods. Twice she has produced offspring. Both failed to survive. If she allowed Bondurant to cover her, would she be disappointed again? Was she the barren link of her family? The gods were cruel, choosing her to carry on in such hardship. She was ugly, stubborn, and knows her history (or lack there of) with producing offspring. It was in moments like this, that her sires words rang in he back of her head. The way he had told her to toughen up when she had been upset or hurt, the way he had told her to carry on; they were the same words he had spoke to her blue mother, when her brother and sister both had been born defective.

Her thoughts swim behind her quiet green eyes, temporarily unaware of her surroundings.