Meadow

The little mare doesn’t find it hard to listen to Bagheera as she speaks. Though it’s in an accent she’s never heard before, words spoken in a way Azalea can’t fashion with her own tongue, the innocent mare can’t help but find it intriguing. She wants nothing more than to keep listening to the shadow laden mare, hating to speak now as her own voice sounded clunky to her ears in comparison. “Has there ever been a stallion to know differently?” Azalea asks, though said in a humorous manner, it is still spoken with truth. Though she had never experienced the true touch of a stallion, she had watched the brutes as they fought over the other mares as if they were no more than a good spot of grass to claim.


Azalea finally dared to look away, casting her gentle gaze across the meadow as Bagheera had called it. She could imagine it cast in silver of a full moon with the long stems of green spring grass waving with a gentle breeze. Such a dreamer, her mother had accused more than once, but Azalea can’t help but try and picture the beauty in things. Even when the bad are often pointed out.


“I don’t know.” She replied, again turning her eyes to Bagheera. There had never been choice where she had come from. Just another number in a sea of brown and tan fur. “What is there to choose from here?” Azalea had no idea where to even begin, or what might be out there for her here. Hopefully she had asked the right question to give the warrior goddess mare plenty to talk about, so that Azalea could continue to listen to her pretty words.


AZALEA