quinn.

It is the surprised scream that jolts Quinn from his daydreams. He is lingering close to Nyimara’s small herd, keeping a watchful eye on her children, though the warm sun makes it difficult not to let his mind wander as he stands guard. The sharp sound of Nyimara’s voice behind him rips him from these wanderings, and he jerks his head around. He does not see her; the sound must have carried across the open landscape. He glances back to the herd, but as far as he can tell, nobody else has heard the yell.

Quinn pivots on his hind legs and takes off across the rolling dunes. There was only the one scream, and it could have come from anywhere, really, carried across the sand by the breeze, unhindered by any obstacle beside the gently rolling dunes themselves. Quinn heads straight toward the sound, willing to change course or double back if he doesn’t find the source.

For a few moments as he canters across the sand, Quinn does not call out. If Nyimara is in danger or under attack, the chances of her putting her assailant in the ground are pretty high without his help. Still, she is very pregnant, and Quinn does not want to take any chances, so after a bit he slows, and calls out.

“Nyi!” he bellows, listening intently for any response, before picking up again and cresting another of the countless dunes he has crossed over.

At the bottom of the dune he has just climbed is a dark heap of legs and pale hair. Quinn descends the dune in a controlled slide, sending sand sloughing off the steep face and rippling into a puddle at the bottom like a liquid. He gathers his footing at the bottom and closes the distance between himself and the witch Queen, eyes raking intently over her crumpled form. She doesn’t look injured, but a stirring movement near her hindquarters makes him halt a few steps away, one hoof raised.

“Unfortunate timing?” he drawls, placing the hoof carefully and approaching the rest of the way. She might strike at him like a snake for daring to come so close right after she’s given birth, but Quinn doesn’t care. He can tell even before he reaches them that this child is his, as much as it is hers.

The stallion’s dark muzzle lowers toward Nyimara’s, and he risks a bite from her to give her face a gentle nudge. “Who tripped whom?” he asks, his tone a gentle tease.

stallion. spanish mustang mutt. 15.3hh. smoky black overo.