So far, despite her initial disgust at such a hot and acid environment, the Deserts were growing on her. It had taken time of course, early morning walks along the winding trails, learning of the ever changing dunes that rolled with the winds in much the same manner as the ocean waves. She learned to spend the worst part of the days congregating amid the canopies of the palm and date trees or in the shallow waters of the spring that always seemed to provide cool waters for drinking regardless of how hot the day. She had grown lean in the year's time she spent here, her black and white coat growing into the arabian heritage of her mother. No longer did thick hairs blanket her body, instead her black and white coat gleamed bright beneath the burning sun. The year had taken from her any residual signs of weight and instead left her with lean muscles familiar know with climbing through the sandy dunes and hard hooves familiar with navigating rocky outcroppings. She may have been born in the Bay of Tinuvel, but her time in the desert was quickly showing her how at ease her lineage bred her for the life among Salem's sands.

This day finds her fuming on the other hand. She was highly disappointed in herself. The drafty mare Geneva had claimed the right of queen and well Harlequin was not content with that. It was not exactly that she wanted to play that role herself but well, she had seen him. She was no fool to imagine that the burly stallion would have eyes for she and she alone, she had seen him with the other mares and well there were others that she herself felt better suited for the roll. In the end Geneva had been victorious and though Harlequin told herself that she had not wandered off to lick her wounds it was in fact just what she was doing.

She blamed the heat.

For the first time in years she felt the urge burn through her. She told herself that it was this rise of emotions that had lead her to meet Geneva in battle to begin with. She needed to feel the rush of adrenaline, something to relieve the ache that burned her body. She lingers now, near the water's edge, paper thin nostrils quivering in the dry winds that whip across her slender build. Long whipcord of black and white hairs flick with audible snaps back and forth against the supple curve of her hip. That damned stallion. Even now she can see the smug grin upon his lips. He had told her she would want it, told her that he would be ready when she came begging before his feet. She had turned to him with scoffing laughs that day, hide herself away the first season when the heat came upon her. Never did she remember it being this difficult. For the first time in a long time she finds herself craving his touch, remembering with a pleasurable shiver how his muscular body had lingered against her own and his husky words breathed heavily into her ears.

No.

She stamps a single foreleg of white into the shallow waters that pooled around her fetlocks. No. She could not think that way. She would not. She was merely a member of his herd and nothing more. She needed no foal to tie her to this place more so than her loyalty to Cain. She did not want to think of how painful labor could be or the struggles of managing the desert sands with belly swollen round with foal. But then.... she hears her name upon the winds, feels the twisting fingers of the invisible zephyrs as plainly as if it were Cain's own whiskered lips. Damn him. Her skin shivered. Damn him.