The Lost Islands
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sing for absolution

I felt stagnant.

Nothing had happened for an entire season, and I had found it more difficult than I initially realized to keep the mares together in my new territory. In the Arch it had been easy: there was no shelter from the elements or from me. I avoided the copse of pines at the edge of my territory and kept the herd grouped together in the open. We were able to see potential threats approaching from all sides and it was no trouble for me to recollect a straying mare because nothing opposed me except the wind.

Here, in the Forest, I was no longer as small as I had been as a colt. The trees were more of a hindrance than anything else, and I was disgusted at myself. How had I ever feared the black stallion when it was stupid enough to call a place like this home? I wondered, often, if my oppressor was not quite so viciously clever as I had once imagined. The trees in this Forest created too many shadows and blindings streams of light. My eyes never felt entirely adjusted to light or dark, and although I had gathered the mares in a nearby grove before I wandered away to remark my territory, there was no guarantee they would be there when I returned. It was too easy to slip away from me in this place, and I did not like it.

What I needed was the Black, or a mare like it who had acted as a sort of magnet to the others of the herd.

I cursed the stupid mare for the umpteenth time and flattened my ears as I shouldered past a tree. It grew almost directly in the path I was taking, and did not shift at all despite my push. My shoulder felt bruised, and I snorted. That was another thing I disliked about the Forest. I could not fight the trees or give vent to my frustrations with much success, and I was often reminded of my own lack of power under the towering things. I was beginning to hate this place. I walked a wide circuit around the grove I had left the mares in and let my thoughts drift to my memories of the Arch. Winter was not even in full swing and already I considered relocating the herd to a colder climate and a land less opposed to my rule.

Rurisk
nine . stallion . draft mutt . buckskin blanket . 17.3 hands . uforia
image and html by sabrina for uforia's use only


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