Sleep was the ephemeral demon that plagued his every movement. Just as the sun would rise and the moon would fall, sleep would creep its way into the corners of the stallion's eyes and beat him out in a race of the wits. 

The hovel that he had most recently chosen as his sleeping den for the past few weeks was a modest set up. Isolated from the bulk of the herd and away from any rivers, creeks, or the tell-tale roaring of the ocean, the hutch of tall grasses and spiny branches that were woven together in a foreboding manner made for a comfortable bed on some nights. Other nights he found himself in the largest space that he could, pressing his red side into the earth and staring up at the stars that twinkled ominously on clear nights. 

On the days that he was able to sleep, the stallion found himself curled defensively in his little cache, his nose resting on a knee and his tail flared out about him like a red flame. As the day around him would fade away and his eyes would close, the stallion would be reminded of his horrific past. The clearest of the images that came to him was the gaping mouth of his mother, black lipped and from the corner of her mouth a thin stream of blood. She looked surprised, her eyes were wide and her ears were twisted in unnatural directions, one folded against the ground under the right side of her face, the other turned backwards as if listening for some threat approaching behind her. In every dream, he would nose slowly forwards, trying to touch his face to hers, but then with a bang and a sickening crunch, the space that the mare's head had occupied was replaced with heavy hooves. 

Today, he awoke before the rest of his dream had the chance to continue. Feeling strangely relaxed and invigorated, despite the sudden jump that had thrown him back into the world of consciousness. Blinking against the soft, early morning sunlight, the red stallion removed himself from his hiding place and moved into the bulk of the trees. 

Everything was silent this morning, the ground still damp with dew and the trees standing tall and motionless, not dancing to the unheard song of the wind today- there was no wind. Turning his nose to the north, the red stallion pushes his ears forwards for a moment, straining to listen for the squeals of infants at play or the voices of scolding mothers, but he finds that everything is quiet for the moment. No one is demanding his presence, and the sun in the sky promised to keep the weather warm later in the day. Moving through the forest, Vercingetorix manages to shake the sense of dread from his bones with every step, his long, straight face settling into a stoic, blank expression. No longer panicked by the frequent reminders of his past, the stallion finds himself picking his way through the forest in a relaxed fashion, the muscles in his hips and shoulders rolling comfortably under his flame red skin. 

The area of the forest that he had found himself in appeared to be the far edge of his home, where the trees thinned out and the forest floor was decorated generously with tall grasses that seemed to leak into his home from the other terrains that spotted the island. Suspended in the midst of where the forest meets the prairie, the stallion wanders quietly, stopping briefly once he had found a creek. There he stood for a while, his head bowed down to drink from the clear water and relish the quiet of the morning.