Common

mazikeen

aving Kohelet in the Desert still feels somewhat unreal. For years, Mazikeen had thought her adopted mother was lost to her. To stumble across her again purely by chance… if Mazikeen were the spiritual sort, she might label it fate. Kismet. Destiny. The universe tying together threads that had long since been broken. But she has never been inclined towards such romanticism, and so she tells herself it is coincidence and nothing more. Still, she finds herself grateful to whatever unseen force governs the universe that had seen fit to reunite her with the tobiano mare.

Sometimes, when she watches Kohelet from afar, she wonders if Salem truly feels like a home to her. She remembers keenly the devastation that had all but poured from every inch of her body when she had been forced from Fell's side. And though Mazikeen does not know the full truth of what had transpired during Kohelet's time with Rafe, she could only assume it had been unpalatable, given how quickly she had fled the desert island.

Yet if Kohelet harbors any resentment, if being on Salem has threatened to reopen old wounds, she shows no signs of it. So Mazikeen chooses not to pry, does not presume Kohelet feels any way but happy to be at her side again.

Instead, she turns her attention to the future. The Desert is hers now, for however long Nyimara can be kept away. She knows better than to crowd it too quickly, but she will need bodies eventually. Loyal ones who can legitimize her claim, give weight to her presence. And so, one cloudy summer day, she sets her sights on the Commons.

Mazikeen pulls herself from the sea, briny water trickling down her spotted coat in rivulets. She shakes once, the humid air closing around her and pulling her dark lips into a faint grimace. She is not built for this kind of heat. Salem is dry, arid, the sun there pressing down hard, but it is a bearable heat, scorching but not overly oppressive. Here the air feels thick with moisture, settling heavy on her coat and in her lungs, making her feel as if she is attempting to breathe underwater.

The Desert queen's citrine gaze lifts towards the sky, where thick gray clouds sag and swirl overhead, swollen with rain and threatening to break at any moment.

But she is not about to let a little discomfort or the threat of rain thwart her now. Mazikeen moves through the Commons with ease, her strides measured and unhurried. Topaz eyes sweep across the meadow, and the scene sprawled out before her is as she remembers it from last time: clisters of mares speaking in low murmurs, cocky young stallions pressing their luck with fresh-faced fillies, foals frolicking beneath the watchful gazes of their mothers. Somewhere some Lagoon stallion is surely lurking, waiting diligently for his newest prize to wander unknowingly into his crosshairs.

The Commons - predictable as ever.

As Mazikeen near's the meadow's edge, a call cuts through the low drone of voices that ring out around her. Her dark ears pivot sharply atop her head to catch the sound. She pauses, her eyes narrowing as she searches for its source.

There - a black mare, standing not far off. Without much deliberation, Mazikeen alters her course and approaches at a leisurely pace, a low nicker slipping from her lips.

"You look like someone I used to know," she comments by way of greeting, citrine eyes flicking across the mare's figure before settling upon her face. "What's your name?"