The changing of the seasons is subtle on Salem, something recognized only by those familiar with the rise and fall of the sun and stars. Nyimara can feel it in the air. The change is miniscule, a mere cooling of the zephyrs and amassing of clouds on the horizon, but regardless the mahogany woman recognizes them long before the surge of estrogen announces to her that fall has come. Winter would be quick on its heels and though Salem saw very little snowfall, she found herself smiling at the thought of cooler days and even cooler nights.

A chill of anticipation ripples through her like droplets of rain on the surface of water. Winter would mean less threat from the island of Tinuvel and perhaps for a time, even she would be freed for a time from the burdens of a reigning monarch. It was a false hope but one that the silver haired witch clung to nonetheless. In her time since becoming monarch of the Dunes, life seemed to have replenished itself from whatever dormant state it had previously found itself in. Atair and his clan had grown the numbers of her meager herd and with it, a renewed hope that the burden of patrolling the borders would not constantly depend on her and Quinn alone.

Today, as with the many before it, Nyimara finds herself dancing across the Dune caps, admiring the lithe figure her shadow cut upon the golden sands below. Though true to his word thus far, the mahogany woman still did not fully trust the dark star-kissed stallion enough to rely completely on his patrols. He and his mate had made it quite clear that they were dead set on finding the missing members of their family. If they were anything like the old wolf, Nyimara knew that this would take precedence. So, without complaint, she finds her own sort of pleasure in what any other might view as a nuisance task. Silver white tendrils dance along the arching curve of her neck, lifted into motion by the invisible fingers of the zephyr winds that blew across the horizons. Obsidian hooves leave small intentions in her wake only to disappear as the winds dislodge the fine grains of sand. It was times like this that Nyimara found herself reveling in the freedom of her monarchy, untethered by the constraints of life as a herd mare. Now in truth, she had never found herself at harm under the thumb of Bjorn and often imagined of the life that had been. Yet now there was no one to bridle her, no one who could tell her where to go or what she must do. Salem offered her far more than anything her sire or Bjorn ever could. Freedom.

A shrill, distant cry draws her from her thoughts. Pale lashes blink away the memories of her past and draw her focus away from the dancing image of her shadow to the horizon. There had been no threat in the voice, no challenge to her supremacy or taunt to her prowess. No, the call was one that she herself had screamed to the heavens many times before, a revel in freedom. Still, her curiosity has set into her mind for the voice is not one she immediately recognizes. Movement catches her attention as a dark figure appears, bursting over the crest of a nearby dune in a spray of sand. For a brief moment, Nyimara is caught up in her curiosity. Near black eyes trace the sharp contrast his lithe form cuts against the pale sands, admiring the definition of muscle beneath the sweat glistened hide. Like Atair and Eness, he is small boned, even more so than herself and while deep down there is a brief sense of envy, the beast pushes it aside as useless. He may appear graceful and elegant, built for this desert region… but so was she.

With a toss of her own exquisitely dished head, the silver haired witch launches herself in pursuit. Gravity aids the swiftness of her hooves as she charges fearlessly down the sloping sands to intercept the nomad. Instead of halting his carefree gallop, or dropping himself respectfully into a slower pace to allow her to overtake him, the crimson stallion merely laughs. The impish gleam in his eyes shines brightly as he calls to her, drawing the beast from its slumber with a wolfish grin and muscles tensed to accept the challenge. Were it not for the dare in his body as he arched away from her, Nyimara might have found herself feeling a bit differently about the stranger. The playfulness in his graveled tone seals the deal. With a toss of her own head and a laugh that has long become foreign to her lips, the mahogany woman sets her sights on the dancing stallion with the wide beacon upon his brow.

He does not alter his gait for her, neither does he slow his pace to allow her to catch up, instead there is a wildness about him that is almost as intoxicating as the scent of the arid desert wind as it whips about them. Obsidian hooves pound the sand anew, devouring the earth beneath her like a ravenous beast and spraying the remnants far behind them in a plume of sand and grit. Paper thin nostrils flare wide, drinking in the wind and feeding her lungs the air that they screamed for. Adrenaline and pleasure coil and twist through her veins, leaving her breathless and lightheaded in their wake. Closer she comes, angling her lithe figure nearer until she can feel the heat and sweat radiating from his dark red skin. Determination narrows her gaze as Nyimara dips her head, her long neck arching pressing her ashen labrums against the concave of her breast. Sweat darkens her own hide, glistening in the bright sunlight and leaving trails of white flecked foam against the creases of her figure. Closer. She presses on, her lungs and legs screaming, begging her to stop. The silver haired woman has never been one to back down from a challenge and today was no different, she was not about to be the first to admit defeat. Summoning her reserves, Nyimara comes abreast of the stranger, a satisfied smile on her own sweat darkened lips as she snakes her neck towards him, blunt teeth nipping playfully at his salty flesh. He surrounds her, the scent of his testosterone soaked scent making her heady with need and desire. Closer she presses, shifting her weight to allow her forelimbs to cut across his path in hopes of stuttering his steps and giving herself an advantage. Dark eyes shine brightly as laughter once more breaks past her breathless lips. She needed this. By the gods she needed this.