Meadow

Mist hangs low on the rolling hills of the Meadow. It is dawn, the sky stained in vibrant pinks and oranges, and the sun shines in bright golden stripes through the trees to catch the glittering edges of morning frost. The air, crisp and cool with the promise of winter, lays its frigid teeth upon Minthe’s skin, her thin coat not offering much protection against it. No matter; it isn’t winter yet. The day - and Minthe, to be sure - is just warming up.

Her slender legs carry her in and out of the light as she walks gracefully just inside the trees. When she steps out of the shadows, she flashes like crystallized amber, glowing and resplendent. She has spent the night meticulously grooming the salt from her fur; any traces of dirt have been removed from her white legs, and the long red threads of her mane and tail are free of tangles. She is a vision, tall and slender and doelike, and she knows it. Minthe is a prize to be cherished, a valuable asset indeed, and yet as easy to hold onto as an eel coated in pond scum.

It is evident in the fact that Minthe has left the mainland in the first place. By all accounts, her life had been good: secure in a thriving herd, climbing the ranks, and cherished by her stallion, she should have had nothing to complain about. But he had grown… distracted, as of late. Lazy. Minthe had taunted him relentlessly with the ebb and flow of her cycle, but had refused to bear him a child. Other mares had given in, and he had taken to doting on them and his incredibly annoying children over chasing her hither and yon. Every time he chose them over her - she, who could give him so much more, if he was just willing to put in the freaking effort - his grip on her loosened. He left her alone for a minute too long, and she grew bored, so she left to find someone who would appreciate her gifts more than he ever did.

Him and his little group of breeders and their crotch spawn are the farthest thing from her mind as she steps out of the forest. Minthe has no use for him now, and refuses to give him space rent-free inside her mind. Instead, she sets her rich cocoa eyes upon a small copse of trees nestled in the curves of the meadow ahead. The ‘Teke sighs to herself, impatient already for some goddamned adulation, before carefully placing an open expression on her elegant face. She trots out into the open, her steps high and bouncy, and as she crosses over the grass her red tail waves high, a shimmering red banner directing one’s eye directly to the succulent curve of her hindquarters.

The mare slows to an easy walk as she reaches the small stand of trees. There is a clearing in the middle of it, and when she has found it she comes to a stop directly in the center, dappled light filtering down over her and the soft pine needle carpet below. Minthe settles into place, cocking one hind leg in feigned nonchalance, and pretends to scratch an itch on her elbow, bowing the long curve of her neck. Her tail swishes idly, the scent of her heat drifting from her like a signal flare firing in all directions. She will endure, for now, and wait for the stallion she is sure has been following her to make his appearance. Minthe, after all, will never do the pursuing; it is, and always will be, her who is the one chased. She prefers it that way.