Before he had even reached the edge of the land he now called his, Boomslang heard the grass whisper with more intensity. He flicked an ear to the side to hear more clearly, and at the edge of his vision he saw a dark shape approaching fast. Boomslang angled his head for a better view just as the mare reached him, her musky scent rolling over him like culture shock. In many ways that comparison was true: Boomslang had never been in these parts, whatever “these parts” were, and the sudden appearance of what he could only assume was a native elicited an excited snort from him.

Her nose brushed his withers as he craned his neck toward her mouth, eager to exchange heavy bursts of breath with his sudden speckled company, but the mare was off and running before he could do more than blow a puff of air at her dark face. Her abrupt speed startled him and he veered to one side, never faltering from his his high-stepping jog as he pointed his ears towards the blanketed bay mare curiously. She did not appear to be afraid, or evenly mildly concerned about anything at all. If he didn’t know any better, it looked as if though the mare were peeking at him to see if —and how— he would react to her antics.

Boomslang tossed his head and whinnied, high and long as he rocketed forward. The tall grass threatened to catch at his legs but he forced it aside, parting it with his chest as he ran. It did not take him very long to catch up to the mare, and as he passed he delivered a quick nip to the side of her barrel in retaliation. As the grullo stallion flung himself to the left and away from the mare, he was reminded of playing chase with his sisters, a rough-and-tumble group of fillies, and his brothers, sneaky and quick colts whose glittering eyes gave away their hiding places. The adults of the herd had watched their antics with bemused patience, only intervening in the foal’s games if their ruckus posed a danger to the herd. Mountain cats had been a specific danger he hoped to avoid in his new home.