NYMERIA
With the passing weeks had arrived a season that Nymeria knew only too well. Even still, the forest was continuing to surprise her. The dying gold and red leaves, for instance, had finally passed on and now littered the ground in a great brown slodge which stank to high heaven, not with the freshness of pine needles as she was used to, but of wetness, of rot. She had come to accept this, however, deciding that these trees were merely of a different breed to the hardier kind that lived in the winter lands, as she was a different breed to these islanders. The snows were a familiar face, and one she welcomed gladly, but they had taken to melting as soon as they came. For her it was warm, far warmer than the winters she had spent huddled among her kindred with the wind cutting like a knife and ice crystals forming on her whiskers. And, what's more, the great long night had not fallen on the forest yet. That was one thing she was grateful for; she had never enjoyed spending months in the gloom of twilight, as was the norm in her homeland.
She did not trust this easy winter, though. Often in the past an easy winter had meant a worse spring for her and her family. Her daughters were now weaned, thanks to the plentiful food here in the forest, but without knowing what wintry disasters might loom ahead in the near future, Nymeria had still not named them. If they survived this season, she would do it then.
If there was one thing she was certain of, it was that the forest needed a female leader. The red stallion was attentive, but quiet: not forceful and controlling as Rurisk had been. His women seemed to prefer spending time with him and only him, and when they could not they seemed to sulk in silence, like spoiled children forced to share their sweets. It surprised her that with so many women around, none had yet taken the initiative to bring the herd together as one, or to scold those being so petulant and unsociable. She often wondered, as she watched them, how they would fare in the arch or in the always-winter lands where she was born. Likely they would die out, she had thought once, wryly. And those who survived would forever more understand the importance of unity.
Today, ice-cold rain dappled her back as she stepped out into the open. Across the way she could see ruddy, long-legged Brynja, the only one she had spoken with as of yet (excluding the handsome foreign mare who had since disappeared). A light smile of approval curved her lips, but she did not intend on chit-chatting today. She had allowed her daughters to roam nearby, and she could hear them squabbling in the trees off to her left, so they would not be a hindrance for a while. It was time. Nymeria straightened her muscular body and strolled with cool grace into the center of the herd. Her feathered hoof steps were slow and deliberate, and her head was thrust proudly into the air. She eyed the mares on either side of her carefully, watching for a reaction. Would they accept her assertion of dominance, or would there be posturing?
8; LIGHT DRAFT MIX; DAPPLE GREY; 16HH; SHIVA |