Meadow

The shift in temperature between the Crossing’s autumn and the Bay’s autumn is noticeable and not entirely unwelcome. The sea is calm, more or less, or at least not choppy enough to make the swim too tiring. The waves, a gray and gently churning reflection of the overcast sky above, wash over Fell’s back and neck as he makes his way South.

He has grown complacent in his home the past several seasons. Whatever is happening on Salem has kept Rafe off his back, and his borders have been all but silent. It was a relief, at first, but Fell’s suspicions have begun to grow. It is far too quiet. Even within the Bay, things are growing stale. Several of his mares have either hidden themselves away in the deep pine forests or sneaked away altogether. The remaining herd consists of the few mares who don’t loathe Fell, and although he cannot complain about this particular change, the winter will be rough with so few bodies.

And, at any time, the peace (if you could call it peace) could shatter.

This brings him to the Crossing. Fell shakes the cold seawater from his coat, his mane slapping against his neck, waterlogged and heavy. He lurks at the edges of the Commons for a while as he dries, wolfish eyes scouring for any strays, but he sees none. He moves on.

The Meadow is empty when he arrives. The scents of others are fresh from the day before, but nothing from today. He moves at the edge of the treeline, concealed in the shade, until the Meadow is no longer empty. A golden shape darts into view and pauses, seeming to cast its gaze over the field. Fell halts, watching between the trunks of the trees as the shape — a mare, he realizes — moves again. She follows the edge of the Meadow, along the treeline much as Fell had done when he had arrived, and he draws back as she gets closer.

It’s not that he expects to remain hidden, but the way in which the golden mare abruptly halts causes him to narrow his eyes in surprise. He can see some kind of alarm evident in the tense lines of her body, but it’s only when she turns to look right at him through the trees that he recognizes her.

The half-drowned kitten on the shore of the Bay.

You, she hisses, and Fell’s ears tick back. They are separated only by a few trees and some shade, but the sky above is overcast anyway, so it feels darker than it should without rays of sunlight breaking through the leaves or spilling over the Meadow beyond. He expects her to say something more, recalling that she had been rather chatty their only other meeting, but she does not.

Does she expect him to say something? It does not appear that she does, but she must expect something from him. Their meeting had been tense at best, but the little golden cat was alluring, and Fell has not gotten any pickier. He wants her, even if she does not care for him, even if he tends to prefer mares who don’t despise him. He is selfish, and he bristles with the desire to possess. More bodies for the winter, he thinks, a laughable excuse.

Fell moves closer, leaves and twigs crunching beneath his feathered hooves, his eyes sliding over her clouded sunset coat. He extends his velvet black muzzle toward her, almost tentatively.

As close as she will let him.

FELL

stallion. 16hh. black. marwari x. Rougaru x visurix.