zaia

Dexter’s chosen route through the territory makes him a perfect target for the ever-searching eyes of Zaia. The little red dun mare has not yet satisfied her need for new in her life, and she spends her days exploring the most internal and external parts of the territory. The day the stranger arrives is the most exciting day of Zaia’s life, it seems. She sees the horse stop on one of the biggest dunes, though he is not facing toward her.

This is perfect, because if —if!— he means her harm, he will not see her coming as she strides her way up the side of the dune. She knows better than to try to run up the shifting sands, or to do so in a nearly vertical path. The mare moves diagonally across the back of the dune at a steady pace. Zaia passes the spot where the stallion stood while still several feet below him until she finally reaches the top of the massive pile of sand a few horselengths to the stranger’s left.

The fading sunlight makes the land look red, and if the stranger wasn’t nearby Zaia might have lingered to watch the Dunes change color during the sunset. But she is much more interested in the newcomer than a meager sunset, and she drinks him in with dark, greedy eyes. He’s a couple of hands or so taller than she is and a delightfully dark color— like the underside of storm clouds fat with rain. He is not dark like black is dark, but rather like a moonless night in a place covered in sun-soaked snow is dark.

The Kiger Mustang bounds forward, the muscles in her banded legs bunching and sand shifting beneath her small hooves to fall skittering down the side of the dune until she stops in front of the newcomer and thrusts her nose towards his to exchange scents. Unlike the grullo stallion she lives with, this one appears to have some dappling. Plus he’s taller. And while he doesn’t have the same sort of nose as the stallion who shares the dunes with her, Zaia still finds him handsome. And dark. And tall.

“You’re perfect,” she says as she pulls her head back into her own space. “Tall, dark, handsome— what brings you to the Dunes?” Zaia tips her head down and to one side in a coy expression, ears up and one dark eye trained on the stallion as she waits for his response. At four years old she has yet to experience any serious rejection or heartbreak (or attraction— so far it has all been shallow and fleeting feelings, easily felt and easily overcome), and while she does find the stallion before her attractive it won’t be too much of a disappointment if he does not respond to her as flirtatiously as she hopes.