Rim
dark bay Hanoverian mutt | 16.1hh | five years old | reli
you were wild once
don’t let them tame you.
She doesn’t leave the mainland, not yet.
Instead, the mahogany mare finds herself guided by the river for a while, pulled quietly along its banks in much the same way the water bubbles over the bedrocks. She enjoys the rushing of the current at her side, losing herself in the soft treading of her own steps and the occasional trill of a bird, until she is suddenly struck by boredom. Pinching her lips into a scowl that her mother would playfully chide her for (“You are much too pretty to wear such a rigid frown, little princess,” she could hear her saying), Rim pivots sharply on her heel and shifts her direction closer to the heart of the island.
Lashing her thick tail around her flanks, her boredom quickly morphs into a restlessness that thrums deep in her bones. Heaving a snort that is half-sigh, half-snarl, the dark mare abruptly spurs herself into a sprint. Desperate to find release, she pushes herself hard, reaching out with each stride that swallows the grass beneath her hooves. Rim isn’t sure where she is headed so quickly, and she doesn’t care. If she could fly, she would—she would leap into the clouds and soar beyond the horizon, away from the memories and scars that shackle her to reality.
Rim doesn’t know how long she runs for—she is bred for both speed and endurance, yet still she is heaving by the time she slows to a halt. Sweat darkens her hide to a glistening black along her neck, shoulders, and flanks, her hair wind-tossed and thrown into a wild disarray around her features. It accentuates the feral gleam in her caramel eyes, alive now with the high of endorphins that sing deliciously through her veins.
Releasing a breath of laughter that is more manic than joyful, she stands for a moment, sides still heaving to catch her breath. She can no longer taste the salt from the ocean here, which leaves the autumn air dry and crisp as it ripples across the vast expanse of grass. The breeze chills her skin where it is wet from perspiration, and she finds herself succumbing to a lone shiver as the sun bathes its glittering rays over her back. It is not quite dusk, but almost—the sun has begun its decent, casting the meadow in hues of rose and gold that are contrasted by long, creeping shadows.
There is beauty here, Rim concedes.
She doesn’t particularly like it, but it is beautiful.