She can’t say she’s experienced abuse (mental or physical, it goes both ways) and perhaps that leaves her naïve in that sort of sense. But she isn’t soft or fluffy or innocent or anything along those lines. As far as personality goes, Brisk is as sharp and harsh as they come. She could be called heartless, but that could only be a nickname given from those who do not yet understand her. She’s young, still; but her attitude is that competitive with the brutality of an elderly mare.

Nonetheless, all Brisk’s life she has lived in the Tundra. She keeps to the corners of the kingdom, away from the musk of men, and she has yet to be kicked out. She is antisocial in that manner of speaking (keeping away from the kingdom discussions, resorting her social interactions to the small, hardy creatures of the Tundra, becoming something of a purely wild horse living alone) but occasionally the strong longing for the closeness of a herd will hit her. And she answers it.

This time her feet take her to the meadow. Summer has swept through Beqanna in a vibrant explosion of bright color and sweltering heat. Although summer is much milder than winter, the temperatures in the Tundra rarely compete with the temperatures outside of the bachelor kingdom. And, although her summer coat is lighter than her winter coat, Brisk always finds herself sweating against the heat of the sun. Everything seems to increase by tenfold outside the Tundra’s border – the sun got hotter, the grass got greener, the humidity got more humid. Before she even reaches the meadow, Brisk’s bay appaloosa coat is dark with sweat and she can feel the heat radiating off her body.

Reaching the gathering place, the snake-shifter immediately heads toward some shade by a quietly-bubbling stream. The shade on her skin soothes her skin and the water to her parched lips only aids in that soothing feeling. The presence of another mare doesn’t catch Brisk’s attention until after she’s finished drinking. The sweet smell of another female glides into the bay appy’s nostrils and she turns her head in the direction of the other mare. Angular, sharp cheekbones frame the crackling harshness of yellowish-orange eyes. “Summer’s a bitch,” Brisk says by way of greeting.

She hasn’t ever really been good with words.