It had been some time since Vodnik had paid her any real attention. In fact, in the duration of her time here, Dracaena had come to understand that he likely only tolerated her presence because she was a mare, and because she could be useful to him. Like any other stallion, he no doubt saw her as just three things: breeding stock, a potential bargaining tool, and a spare body to fill up an empty slot in his herd. This was a law of nature, after all. But it was not enough for Dracaena. She would worm her way into his consciousness whether he liked it or not, and then he would realize what an idiot he had been for pouring all of his attention and care into the meek little red mare.
She felt hot and feverish with slow-burning anger as she returned from her foray at the border. The stench of Ailill was thick in her nostrils, which was unpleasant but not unwanted, for she wore it intentionally, like a perfume. She trudged up the slope at a brisk walk, her hooves crushing dead leaves and snapping twigs as loudly as she could manage, and kept her senses peeled for any sign of the draft stallion. Dracaena knew that Rowena and Macabre could likely hear her, for they had retreated back into their home on a path not far away from her own, but she did not fear that they would approach her again: not after the tongue-lashing she had given them. If they did, she was not entirely sure she could be responsible for her actions.
At the very least, a violent brawl between his mares would definitely attract Vodnik's attention.
DRACAENA
5; flaxen liver chestnut sabino; 15.1hh |