Meadow

The wheat-white mares raises her head to survey his approach but beyond that, she moves very little save for the cough that rattles her body. Her response to his observation draws an amused huff from him, and Kendry cocks a hind hoof as he settles in for what promises to be an interesting conversation. “Seems a contradiction, doesn’t it?” he observes mildly. “You’ve lived, what, a touch over a decade, if you’ve lived a year? I’m young yet. Perhaps you would not have enough time to regale me in full with all your wild tales.” His eyes gleam, one corner of his mouth quirked upward in a grin as he teases her.

She is short in stature, shorter even than the average horse on these isles, but Kendry regards her eye to eye even if their heads are not held at an even height. Briefly, his blue eyes flick beyond the little mare, but there is no tall mass of Bozena’s black come barreling through the trees in defense of the small, not this time— and likely never again, bittersweet though that reality may be. His gaze shifts to the mountains towering in the North and he leans in response to the tug of his heart. Perhaps tonight will be the night he relents.

The little mare’s eyes are fierce and brimming with a vitality that belies whatever distresses her lungs. “Try me,” he coaxes. “One tale, to better gauge the time it might take to tell them all.” The pale stallion is curious, his thoughts echoing the high, distorted whoo? floating down from the pinetops.