Reginleif was bored and boredom often led to exploration. Today’s chosen place of interest was initially the meadow, but it bore no fruit of entertainment and so the fleabitten grey mare found herself meandering closer to the roar of the falls. There had always been something about that distant rumbling that drew her in; perhaps it was just the mere thought of the power behind that water and the damage it could do.
Hot plumes of steam met the air like dragon’s breath from her nostrils as she marched easily through the chilly crossing land. Unlike many other horses Reginleif had met, she rather enjoyed the cold, harshness of winter – maybe it just suited her personality. All at once, Reginleif became aware of a familiar scent on the crisp breeze and it gave the freckled mare pause, her dark eyes narrowing.
No. It couldn’t be…..
But it was! Beneath the mud, tangles, scars grime and general poor condition, there was no mistaking her coursin; Ragnarök’s palomino son; his pride and joy. A joyous smirk flashed across her lips; he looked fucking awful and something about that gave her great pleasure. Perhaps it was just the knowledge that she was clearly more successful in life than the famed Fenrir.
“Well would you look at what the cat dragged in, chewed up and then spat out again.” she called out to the dozing stallion, silently hoping to see him start at the sudden noise. She halted just out of striking distance, looking him up and down with her smuggest, most shit-eating grin, “You look like shit cousin.”
|