Falls

Well, that was fun.

Minthe has coasted on the high of her run-in with the two unnamed men in the Meadow for at least a week. She’d pranced around the trees, meandering and drunk with victory over several days all the way to the other side of the forest, towards the sound of rushing water. Fields stretch, now, in front of her, all the way to the horizon, marked only by the waterfall some distance away. It was impressive at first, tall and not yet frozen over in the wintry cold, but she could see the river continuing past it, towards things bigger and better. Minthe snorts, her wonder fading quickly to disinterest. She steps gingerly to the water’s edge, her ruby-red form stark against the bland tones of dried-up yellow grass, dull spindly branches, and daphne blue sky, and bends her delicate neck for a drink. She moves, like always, as if eyes are upon her - for when are they not? Look at her. Even as the cold kills the vegetation and makes her thin skin twitch, she remains supple and gleaming, her spotless coat like soft velvet. Minthe is a prize, coveted with the fierceness of the breeding season at all times of the year. She won’t grow so desperate for another’s warmth that she accepts less than what she deserves, and she deserves the best.

She deserves the warmth of their adoration, of the drive that brings foolish stallions to pull her close. She doesn’t just want that hit, she needs it, and she knows exactly how to get it. Minthe knew the two brutes from the Meadow weren’t worthy, as… entertaining… as watching them rip each other to shreds had been. They’d gotten so wrapped up in their petty squabbles and uncontrollable urges, they’d forgotten the prize they fought over in the first place. The Akhal-Teke isn’t one to stand around and wait for someone to remember her existence. If you dare to take her eyes off of her for more than a second, she’s gone, like boiling water slipping through your fingers and leaving blisters in her wake. Minthe is just as hard to hold onto, and she will never let you forget it.

The willowy mare lifts her head to its full height, narrowed eyes surveying the land in wide, sweeping arcs. Her red tail swishes, snapping hard against her hips, and she pivots away from the water’s edge, the sharp exhale of her breath fogging around her in a semicircle of soft clouds. As she turns, her expression gentles, her gaze growing soft and mild once more. Her ears curve forward, and the doelike sinews of her muscles relax, her slow-swaying gait showing off all the best parts of her for anyone to notice. Minthe is on the hunt again, laying her traps with the ease and precision of one who has set them hundreds and hundreds of times. It won’t be long before some poor soul decides to take the bait.