’Stupid girl. Stupid stupid girl’... the words growl venomously in her mind as Nyimara stomps her way through the yellowing grasses of the meadow. Ears pinned back amid the water logged tangles of her silver white mane as dark auburn eyes scan the field that lay before her. A stranger approaches. Clearly the stallion had seen her as the disheveled mess she was and thought her a newcomer to the islands, but that poor soul did not realize who she truly is. A squeal of hatred rings from her lips as she launches towards him with all the fury and anger that burns through her body. First Rade defeated her for Shenzi and then Cullen over throwing the Hills! This stallion picked the wrong mare on the wrong day. Furiously her lips peel back as blunt teeth reach for his shoulder, her bite hard and full of purpose. The familiar metallic tang of blood coats her tongue and she watches the figure as immediately he retreats with a buck thinking twice now about his decision to approach her. A smug grin spread across the pale haired woman’s lips as her pink tongue washed over her lips, removing what remained of his blood. Long neck arches as the small delicate woman readjusts herself once more and begins her search again. She may be a displaced queen but that did not mean she did not have a reason not to look the part. She was still a queen.
The sound of muffled voices gives her pause now as she rounds a bend in the trail of woodlands that surround an all too familiar meadow. Small dark ears perk forward amid the tumbled dangle of her mane as Nyimara finds her pace quickened, matching the quick beating of her heart. Bjorn? Could it be? How long had it been that she longed to hear that voice? How long had it been that his icy blue stare haunted her dreams or the passion of their lover’s embrace that day on the beach of the Ridge woken her in a sweat. Bjorn. The one who rejected her and yet the one that she could not live without. It was Bjorn that broke her soul, that left the islands with two of their children in tow and left her standing on the shores of Tinuvel alone with only Raksha for comfort. Bjorn.
Once more the hardness begins to build, the flaming embers stoked as she breathes in slow deep breaths. That scent. She would never forget it. Ears peel backwards amid the tangled web of her silver mane as she bursts past the brittle leaves and skeletal branches of the large white oak that blocked her pathway. Dark eyes blink against the bright sunlight as the images before her come into focus. Why did it not surprise her. Raksha with Bjorn. He had come for her. Small ashen muzzle lifts as brows narrow on the figure of the smokey blue and white stallion that even now caused her heart to stammer in her breast. The beast within fought like a rabid animal, clawing at the emotions of such affections and threatening to envelop her in its hatred. ’Remember!!’ it hissed, ’Remember!’ it screamed as her slender legs closed the distance that separated them. Proudly she gives her finely dished head a toss, sending silver white tresses cascading in wild disarray along the arched curve of her mahogany colored neck. Muscles tense beneath her skin as she comes alongside Raksha, reaching her small muzzle forward to brush against her russet daughter’s flank. ”Well…. Bjorn…” she murmurs, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth in dismay. A single brow raises as she lets her dark ooids hungerily roam his flesh, taking in all the curves and contours of the body she had longed to press against. ”You look…. old” she jeers, her ash dusted muzzle turning upwards in a disdained scoff. A single forelimb rakes across the yellowing grass, ripping a scar of dark earth between them. Long tail snaps audibly against her thigh as she tilts her head towards him, stretching her muzzle towards his own and inhaling a deep breath of his skin. She longed to close the distance between them, longed to press her body against his own and curl her petite frame against his as she had once done years ago. ”I see you found our daughter. Tell me, where are MY other children?” she asks her voice firm despite the waiver that threatens the back of her throat. She must be strong. She was strong. Nyimara would not fall. Not now.
She tilts her head proudly towards him, her words whispering against his skin. ”Miss me?” She could not resist. She knew there was always a risk that she would not get the answer she longed for, that her dreams and memories fed upon, but still. She must hear them now. . .