† recite your prayers in the dead of night †
Her laughter fades to silence and even the circling gulls suddenly put a halt to their raucous screeching. Something has changed. The first thing she notices is the smell, the distinctive mixture of adrenaline, testosterone and blood permeates the salty air. Her single brown eye that was facing skywards now swivels and fixates on the black beast striding along the shore towards her. Lowering his head towards the ground on which she lay he called her weak and then chuckled. Was he laughing at her? And then there was the next thing he said. Was that a threat? ‘Oh, hell nah!’ She thought as her brow furrowed with a mixture of anger and determination. “Who the fuck are you calling weak?” She spits through a mouthful of sand.
Shifting her weight to one-side she flails her limbs violently as she prepares to stand. Witche isn’t necessarily trying to strike at him, but let’s just say that if she did somehow hit him she wasn’t going to lose any sleep over it. This time she does not fall when she stands. She stumbles for a moment before proudly standing to her full height. He easily towered over her by several hands and for a moment she seemed miffed that she could not look at him directly in the face. Her rich dark eyes sweep across his dark coat. She watches in mild fascination as a single drop of blood dribbles down his shoulder before falling on the sand. “Looks like you’re already doing a good job of painting the ground,” she smiles coyly. Reaching towards him with her dainty muzzle she rasps her tongue up his shoulder.
As Witche recoils her head, in a moment of perfect comedic timing, her empty stomach grumbles. It would take more to statiate it then a taste of blood. “I’m hungry,” she states in a matter of fact tone while looking up at him expectantly with her big expressive eyes. She is a young mare, barely out of her foalhood, she is naive to the ways of the world. She doesn’t realize that she had just been claimed. She was an object, a prize, a piece to possibly be traded and bartered with. She may as well be a little lamb gleefully skipping into the slaughterhouse. Was this man going to break or build her?
W I † C H E
mare - three years - homeless |