Indira may look the part of a seasoned warrior. The scars that litter her hide are many and tell tales of brave confrontations both won and lost, but there is one battle Indira has always feared to fight, and it is her battle with fear itself. What she fears most is not physical pain or blood drawn. Perhaps there was fear when carrying Tarek, the first of her foals, but no longer does she fear the journey of motherhood. She is afraid, instead, of those she loves most.
The same ones who should bring her comfort leave her stranded on the common isle, unable to return home. See, Indira has failed them. Their losses are many and it was Indira who should have turned the tides of war. Likely imagined, Indira can see nothing but disappointment in their eyes. She is compelled to do the same as she's always does, and let her fears carry her away on an errant breeze. She cannot face what she failed to do. She cannot face their pain. In facing their pain, she faces her own.
So, a crisp winter's morning leaves Indira to graze alone. The meadow is vast and somewhat quiet this time of day. There is opportunity to search for tender shoots not yet plucked by hungry teeth. Her appetite has grown and Indira doesn't wonder why. She is no maiden mare.
Her lips work, and her tail swings lazily from hip to hip, a habit, more so than a response to flies this time of year. Indira's desert breeding is apparent in her sleek build, and the high set of her tail, but after years of living in other climates, a winter coat grows thick enough for a true winter to come.
A stranger approaches.
There are always others milling about these common lands, so Indira doesn't pay the stranger much mind until it's apparent the stranger intends to engage her. Her ears turn curiously, but it is the words that leave the other mare's mouth that lift her head and prick those ears in interest.
"Oh?" Indira responds, swallowing the one last bite of her meal. "I have heard of her. May ask who's searching for her?
Indira's eyes don't miss the tremors rippling across this stranger's skin. She is desert-bred and not used to their current climate. If she didn't smell of Salem on the cool, winter's breeze, that would have given away her origin, but instead, it's firm confirmation. Indira was born on the island but holds no ties there any longer, none that she's aware of anyways. Someone from Salem searching for her is curious indeed. With tensions on the islands still running high after the war, and Indira's own misdeeds, she's not sure if a stranger in search of herself might be good news or bad.