Nephilim approached her, and the mare slammed to a stop. His greeting breath was friendly, but she snorted in return, struggling to reign in her surprise. This stallion was young, barely more than a colt, still growing, almost a whisp. Age, battle, and strength had given Amaranthe her solid build and the scars she bore on her pelt. The youth that approached her now she felt confident she could overpower all too easily.


He spoke to her, and the pride he held in his voice and in his stance made her pause. She was far from heartless, and he had done nothing to deserve her anger. For a moment she battled with herself. This was not what she was born and bred to do. She was meant to fight for rulers, protect her herd, and ensure the future of greatness. Now she stood, carrying a bastard mutt child, before a colt who looked to have just learned how to walk.


But, she was carrying a child, she had nothing to her name and nothing to fight for. This young sir, the pride growing in his voice, could be filled with potential. Why not fight for something that was built? Why not hope that this stallion was naive?


“Nephilim,” the warrior mare greeted. “I am Amaranthe. I am a wanderer looking for a home.” She hesitated a breath, strategy was never her strong suit. “And a stallion worthy of the title ‘lead’.”

AMARANTHE

MARE :: FRIESIAN :: 15.3hh :: BLACK