Falls

Minthe’s encounter with the hot-blooded man from the Meadow had gone more or less how she’d thought it would. He was interesting - every stallion was, for her, at least as far as she could control them - but he was not a long-term prospect, and she’d known that from the second she got a clear look at him. He had no home, no title, no prestige, and no promise, and regardless of how she portrayed herself to others, she was a creature with needs. To keep her close, one had to come correct, with an offer befitting her worth. Not one of love or companionship; as a mare in her prime, she could get that anywhere, and for her it wasn’t the priority. What she needed was devotion, adoration, power and influence and all the trappings that came with it.

Very few stallions had that. None of the ones she’d met here even came close. As she follows the river, Minthe wonders sullenly why she even bothered to make the swim. Nearly a year gone and nothing to show for it, she fumes, her long blood-red tail snapping against her hocks. The sun beats down on her, high in the cloudless sky and radiating heat. Sweat prickles along her coat, and the Arabian’s scent lingers like sulfur on her skin. Minthe’s eyes narrow - just briefly, for she is still out in the open, and she must maintain her composure. Evidence of a man’s presence absolutely will not do. Without breaking stride, she angles her steps to take her into the middle of the stream, bringing herself to a stop when the water meets her chest.

At first she splashes, throwing her head back to avoid the spray her long white legs kick up, but as she gets in deeper her pace calms, the gentle press of the current swirling invisibly around her narrow frame. Her tail streams beside her, floating on the surface, and the wetness of her fur only exaggerates its natural shine, her body glistening like rubies in the bright midday light. She sighs, both in comfort and in frustration at her lack of prospects, and traces her muzzle in a smooth arc through the water, taking care to arch the taut curve of her neck. Even now, she knows, eyes are probably upon her. She won’t be alone for long; a mare like Minthe never is. All she has to do is make herself available and trouble will follow like hounds on the trail of an injured rabbit.

Whether it comes now, as she lounges like some sort of water nymph, or later on doesn’t matter. Eventually, it will come. It always does.