Meadow

Raksha cannot describe the amount of joy and relief that overwhelms her in this moment. All the fear and heartache that had long plagued her. In this moment, the countless nights where hushed voices and dark growls haunted her dreams. In this moment all the days she spent staring out across the distance shores willing for the familiar head of her sire to appear above the frothing waters. In this moment, none of that mattered and all of it is forgotten.

The warmth of Bjorn’s whiskered lips resting across her withers envelope her in a security that she had long since given up hope of ever feeling. Nyimara did her best to protect them and yet still, there was something about the powerful Arch stallion that her mother’s slight form could not ever bring her security from. Bjorn was different. Though she adored her mother as all daughters do, there was something different about the love she shared with her sire. Something deep but no deeper than that of the love and devotion between mother and daughter. Bjorn was her first hero, her first champion and always in his embrace she felt the security that regardless how hard mother might try, would never be able to achieve.

”Abba.” she breathes, crystal tears trickling free from the corner’s of her silver blue eyes. He whispers against her mane, his warm breath familiar and achingly familiar.

She wants to say more, perhaps had the quiet gray mare not made her approach, she might have. However the soft lilted tones cause the hairs along her spine to once more rise in tension. Where once she found herself shuddering beneath the powerful stare of Aranck;s dark gaze, now she stands with a bit more confidence. Protectively Bjorn uncurls himself from the intimate embrace and takes a protective stance between them. Obediently she takes a step backwards, her smaller russet frame pressed against the thick muscles of Bjorn’s smokey hindquarters. Ears perk amid the dampened tangle of her chocolate colored mane as silently Raksha watches the interaction between the gray mare and her father. Though she could not pin it, there was something vaguely familiar about the mare’s scent.

Deep into her thoughts Raksha delves, forcing back the memories of the Arch stallion to a time before then. A time between when father had disappeared and when Nyimara had ushered her with quick and silent steps away from the drum of hooves. Scents once vague to her senses flare as suspicion fills her silver blue eyes. ”She’s from the Inlet?!” the words meant as a question fall more as a statement as she fixes the woman with apprehensive eyes.