those who run from death
stood still in life.
Hyena jogged quietly through inches of snow, taking in the Meadow with curious eyes. It was certainly a far cry from her great-grandfather's mountain--a place she had visited only once with her dam--but she imagined it looked better in spring. She wasn’t about to denounce the place Gorgo had dragged her to, drunk off the tales their grandmothers had told; at least, not yet. After all, the Islands were where the two now-deceased mares had fallen in love, held in the clutches of a wolf.
Hyena preferred the tales the old mares had told as opposed to the ones her dam spun. Frostwolf was a grouch to begin with, too serious and in desperate need of an attitude adjustment. She always claimed old Flareon was too soft and forgiving of the Islands that had claimed her youth. Frostwolf had found the Islands unbearable, and her sire even more so.
Either way, Hyena took the stories as an invitation for adventure. She had a wanderlust that could not be sated, much to her mother’s frustration and chagrin. Trouble always seemed to find the spotted mare, and, truth be told, she wouldn’t have it any other way. At least she was never bored.
With a toss of her well-defined head (a remnant of Flareon’s dam; Umbreon had always been more bulky than delicate,) Hyena bounced into a rocketing canter that sped her across the open Meadow. She launched herself into the trees, lungs screeching at the sudden change in effort. She followed a game trail, ripe with deer and fox tracks, calling out, “Gorgo!”
“Where are you? Don’t tell me you brought me here just to--” She slid to a halt, almost knocking into the mare.
“Ditch me.”
HYENA!