The coffee-colored stallion has no business being in the Commons. It’s not just that he has no established herd or home – he’s not even looking for those things, so why would he waste his time in the one place those things would be expected of him? He’s not going to have any right to mingle. There’s nowhere for him to bring a mate and keep them safe, and he’s not interested in asking anyone.
Truth be told, Omen has no idea why he’s chosen to mix things up today, but he needs a break from the uncertain wandering, and the Commons are as good a place as any for him to pretend like his life is stable.
The soft muttering of self-reassurance draws his attention to a nervous-looking mare far closer to him on the outskirts than any of the groups socializing beyond. She’s young, but not a baby, and Omen wonders why she’s so skittish. Glancing in the direction of her gaze, he sees no other horse’s attention turned her way, much less anyone actively out to get her. He looks back toward her, an eyebrow raised. He wonders if she realizes he’s there; he hasn’t moved at all since getting comfortable in the patchy shade of the autumn-gold trees, so it’s entirely possible she never spotted him whenever she got here. She’s pretty, Omen thinks passively, too pretty to be here for very long if she steps into the Commons proper. As soon as another stallion sees her, she’ll get snatched up.
The pale-haired stallion feels a foreign stab of bitter jealousy, and the childish thought that he saw her first – and therefore has some claim to her – rudely shoves reason aside and makes itself comfortable in his head.
Irritated at a situation that literally has not happened, Omen moves to intersect the painted mare before she can take another nervous step into the danger of the Commons in autumn. "What’s up with you?" he asks, referring to her anxious posture and the soft words she had just been speaking to herself, but it comes off as snotty rather than casual. His nostrils flare at her scent, and he feels suddenly a little drunk and foolish. Not enough to stop making an ass of himself, though. "You shouldn’t go out there," he informs her, his matter-of-fact tone sounding obnoxious even to his own ears. "It’s dangerous, this time of year."
Omen
hope is an anesthetic