She runs, having made landfall on Salem without ever learning of it’s name nor that it was also one island of many. She gallops, heaving breaths because jackals haunt her heels, though they are furrier than the ones she had known - her gleaming palomino hide catching every fleck of starlight while the moon shed only a sliver in the night sky.

She bears the regalia of a racing mare, bred for stretching those long, spiderling legs across dirt and desert and any other earthly loam that might cross beneath her. Before her escape from bondage, she had been decked in the traditional tack for a showier presentation. A fat two-legged had fancied purchasing her -- only every horse knew what it meant to be sold in the prime of their racing life when you were a mare.

The metal shines especially bright on her, six collared bands around her elongated and elegant throat, a tight hitched bridle that tugged at her mouth and slid close beneath her eyes, mock chain mail fell over her brow in shimmering brass, her breast was guarded by a dressing of tassels and fabric with a shield at its center.

She jingles and clangs and swishes as she moves, dancing in a circle as beady eyes circle in towards her - her purchase on the dunes only by luck and not at all by common use. She had never seen such things before, dunes. One stumble and she is shrieking out a mare’s warcry, stamping her hooves too harshly into the side of the dune at an adversary so that she stumbles and is squeals her rage and fear as she rolls down the embankment to a gully.

"Bana sahip olmayacaksın!" she bares her teeth at them, striking a lucky kick towards a leaping canid, and then speeding into another gallop through the more manageable gullies. "Şişman adam yapamadı! Yapamazsın!" But they are on her heels nonetheless, biding their time and letting her run herself ragged as they travel the peaks of the dunes behind her.