Meadow

with lust-filled eyes and jagged hearts;
Winter has come, but if the isabella mare would ever show a hint of complaint about the bite of the cold, then her name is not Ivory. She has lived the better part of her life on windy, exposed slopes; she has survived four winters stolen and another herdless and wandering. She has fled from a volcano and her brother's killer and slipped through the bars of her prison, never to return. The cold is not better than her, she tells herself, and in truth, on a day still early in winter, even the morning air is barely enough to sting past her coat.

Frost-lined leaves crack underhoof as Ivory ventures out from a stand of trees to graze in the neighboring meadow. The scent and sounds of other equines are inoffensive enough that she ignores them; there are only a few around and they are quiet enough. She does not pay other horses much mind these days--only grazes, follows a well-trodden circuit between the meadow and falls, and keeps to herself, seemingly lost in her own world. She does not bother to think much, even. It is easier to wander, aimless but for the goal of seeking sustenance and avoiding predators, without a stray thought to bother oneself. No one has approached her for long enough to make an impression. Usually they get the hint when she snaps her teeth at them to leave, and Ivory does not retain faces well.

(Could you imagine? If she remembered each and every face? Every ghost of her family, every imagined friend, every sneer or calculating stare? She does not even remember what he looks like. She likes it that way.)

But when she lifts her head to seek out a patch of fresher grazing this time, she sees a pair of equines not so far away. One of them looks somewhat familiar--and Ivory flattens her ears into her pale mane, letting out a snort of discontent. It is a white-mottled mare, and her form sparks a vague sense of recognition, and Ivory doesn't quite know why just yet. But any hint of recognition in this land of strangers is unexpected, and Ivory doesn't like unexpected.

Her coal-dark eyes focus on the painted mare, forming a stare bordering on hostile, and then she snorts again and drops her head to graze once more.

Connemara - 14.2 hands - Isabella Palomino - Wandering - 7 years