The night was drawing to a close as Xiomara stepped across the territory line that separated the Cove from the Bay. Darkness tried desperately to cling to the earth, despite the rising sun that slowly began to chase it away. Shadows still stretched across the ground from the surrounding pines, and the air was still crisp from the night. Hot breaths cloud before Xiomara’s pink muzzle as if a dragon lives within the mare. Chaos burning bright in her otherwise frigid blue eyes as she peered into the inky outline of her surroundings, as a few stray flakes of snow float from the broken clouds lingering in the lightening sky cast in pastel. The tiny white crystals cling to the rim of her ears that tip forward and begin to line the crest of her mane along her neck and settle across her broad back. Autumn was waning, and Winter was surely on its way.


While the mare prowls through not so foreign lands, she does not call out to the herd that lives here, nor the beast she seeks. Instead, like a hunting wolf, she simply follows the scent she searches for, not caring if hers was found in the process. There was no margin of fear, no hesitancy from the mare despite the scent her body still gave from the late season they were still in. She almost hopes it will lure him to her, but even if it doesn’t, Xiomara will not give up her hunt until Fell is found.


When the roan mare does find the black stallion, he is not with his herd, which is all the better in her opinion. She does not need some wayward ward trying to step between them, especially if it is Kohelet. Ears tilting back to bury into the thick tangles of her mane, Xiomara arches her neck and squares her shoulders as she approaches Fell. He is taller than her, his body covered in scars to speak of his experience in combat, and thick with muscle that only a mature stallion has. But the warrioress is not dissuaded of her mission, and instead, a smile curls along her pink lips at the challenge that stood before her. The expression is not a soft, happy expression; but more like a snarl just before she lunges at him with no other warning than her approach.


A squeal of rage manages to rip from Xiomara as she digs in her large, jagged hind hooves and propels herself forward with her front half raised. Front legs tucked; the mare hopes to slam her chest into him; to take the breath from him while her gaping jaws aim to latch onto whatever skin upon the beast she can get. His neck, his withers, his back; Xiomara doesn’t care, so long as she can taste him upon her tongue. To rip away his black flesh and leave the same marks upon him that the desert mare wore.