Last time Boomlsang had played this freely had been what seemed a lifetime ago. There were no responsibilities yet, no mares to lord over (ha!) or children to discipline and raise. Here and now, there was only the nameless mare, himself, and the storm that rolled into existence behind them. He glanced over his shoulder to check the progress of the clouds, and saw the flash of lightning crawl under the gray surface. There would be a fearsome storm soon. Boomslang grinned, his nostrils flaring wide to capture the smells of the oncoming rain and the sharp crackle of the electrically-charged air. His dark eyes shifted to his companion. The mare was catching up.

Boomslang tossed his head and did another buck midstride, elated by the simple joy of running in another horse’s company. Loneliness had been all to prevalent in his travels. The sudden pinch of teeth on his hindquarters reminded him of the fact that he was not alone, not right now, and he snorted in response to the stinging sensation that lingered even after the mare had released his skin. Boomslang leaned into a wide half-circle with the intent of chasing her down and retaliating —gently, gently— but to his surprise the mare had stopped running entirely and now stood in the wind-whipped grasses, her mane and tail caught up and flung about by aggressive, intangible fingers. The stallion slowed to a trot as he returned to her, one ear turned back as he tried to decipher what her motive was for standing still when she was no longer “it.”

He slowed to a walk, then to erratic steps forward as he waited to see when she would reveal her trick. Would she spring at him, or leap away like a rabbit and race out of sight through the grass? He stopped entirely and extended his neck, his dark eyes on hers as he watched for her reaction. Boomslang reached out, inadvertently taking another step forward for that he could finally reach her, and he placed his lips against the soft skin of her neck in a chaste kiss. Only then did he withdraw his head. The stallion stood with a slight arch to his neck, ears pointed forward at the pretty spotted mare in front of him. Thunder boomed in the distance and his eyes lifted as a grin tugged one half of his mouth upwards. “I’m Boomslang,” he said when the rumbling had ceased, though a sudden wet odor in the air promised imminent rain. The Criollo wrinkled his nostrils and flared them again appreciatively.