Nyimara was furious. Anger seethed through every forward thrusting step. Small mahogany ears remained buried beneath the thick mantle of silver white mane that cascaded in heavy rivulets along the sharply arched curve of her neck. Jaws clenched tightly behind closed lips as tentatively she urged Warduna forward, carefully monitoring the young filly’s movements and actions. Though her time in the lagoon had been one short-lived, it was not a place she intended to let her young daughter become too fond of. For a mare such as herself, the lagoon and its men represented something that she swore to herself she would never face again. Captivity. Like the tying leathers of man’s bridles or the restraining hold of their twisted vines, the men of the Lagoon and their self proclaimed power over their trinkets was more than a mere slap in the face. It was mud and mire beneath her hooves.

Solomon would pay.

Again and again the words play on her tongue. Aranck had been flippant in his patrols, the challenge issued by Solomon had been met with less than ambitious defence. How dare he. She, who had borne him a beautiful healthy daughter and strove to defy the odds against them with vicious attack; what loyalties tied her to him with single threads were beginning to unravel and unwind with each step that took her further from the Arch and closer to the Lagoon.

Dark eyes narrow as she finds herself once more crossing over the lush grasses thick with summer foliage. Her stay in Tinuvel had taught her once sleek chocolate skin to thicken against the cold winter's bite and now proved aggravating as sweat and humidity already dampens it against her body. Tentatively she nudges Warduna ahead of her, carefully keeping the small girl clear of tangling vines and dense underbrush. Though she doubted that the filly would find herself in any more danger here than the wolves of Tinuvel, the internal struggle whether to bring her or leave her behind under the protection of her sire had not been one that Nyimara had needed to struggle with for long. Aranck was not a doting sire and Warduna would be greatness. ”Come my darling.” she murmurs, dropping her proud head to nip affectionately at the chocolate filly’s flank. In return, the small girl squeals defiantly at her mother and issues her own half-hearted kick in response. Nyimara snorted loudly, her breath heavy in her lungs as unusually long whipcord lashes back and forth in slow succession against her damp sides. Dark eyes scan the dense brush before her. Cullen was near, of that Nyimara could be sure. Her ash dusted lips turn upwards at the thought of the golden stallion as once more muscles tense beneath her skin. Gods knew he would not miss an opportunity to gloat, but he would be in for a rude awakening if he imagined that Nyimara would merely turn her belly to him in submission. She was the queen of the Arch, even a displaced queen was dangerous in her own rights.