C i t y

 
 

She’s back here again. Back among the sea  of deep green, the trees she just emerged from  at her back and the world in front of her. Rolling hills morph into the Mountain in the distance, far into the distance. Mid-day brings a warm sun, but autumn brings a chilly breeze that tugs at her thick creamy hair. Her freckled coat bristles, it’s grown thicker in the last month or so in preparation for winter. She always grows a hefty, healthy coat for the snowy seasons and therefore prefers frigid mountainous, mostly northern regions. 

She grazes for now, sticking to the tree-line and keeping her yellow golden eyes peeled for any movement in her immediate space. It is obvious she travels alone; it’s obvious she’s healthy, that she’s seen a few battles – the scars tell a story of a chaotic, violent past. Rusty stains outline each bright glass-eye and streak down each cheek. They weep fresh blood each new moon (not precise, but approximately), and her pale face bears the marks of former emotionless tears and forever will. 

So as she has many times before this very moment, she waits with patience and a keen eye. A few wandered too close and she lets pinned ears, a snapping jaw, even the occasional screech let them know they are too close. She’ll choose who comes close, clearly. 

Serious inquiries only. 

in the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;

C i t y

A few fools, a few jesters of the like, many pass by without a thought and some try an approach – she’s chased several away by now. A big boy, she can smell boyness from where she stands, he’s off in the distance and he’s rumbling for her. He approaches without an answer, oh yes, he’s big. She likes big. She likes smart too though and in her experience big often means dumb. He doesn’t seem too oafy at first glance, she ponders, turning broadside and eyes him with her facing eye. She sucks in a breath of cold autumnal air, her tail, long and creamy blond, tosses a few times and rests to spill across her freckled hocks. Her ears flip upright and then one back again, she says nothing to him and slides her sleepy gaze to the next subject.

She. To be truthful she’s always preferred woman – in all aspects, they’re just better. Conversation, sex, fighting, leaders, lovers. Those hard yellow eyes of her betray no interest at all, though, and she again tosses her thick spiraled tail flick back and forth and then rest. She wonders deviously if any of them plan on having a fresh womb – even a Queen, her eyes find the spotted mare, can have plans for another’s womb. The Moth’s child squirms in her, but her body shows nothing of it. Come spring she may have to fight. Her eyes drift back to the dappled man only to linger for a second and find the little mare again; she has a n interesting inquiry, City thinks on her answer for a moment. “Desperation.” She laughs, but it is not of humor or light-hearted fun, it is a bit darker, a little manic even. Though her stare doesn’t quite say ‘lunatic’, there is certainly something sinister clawing beneath the surface of her sulfur gaze. Her voice is raspy and low, still feminine, but steely.

The same desperation that bring you here. Her eyes do not stray, but hone, even bore into the eyes of Crota. Small but strong, – maybe even fierce, intelligent. She startles in place as he slides out and stands rather close. Her tail slashes this time, four or five times instead of once. A hind hoof striking the ground, flinging earth from the gauge in the turf. She is not accustomed to being snuck upon, but it peaks her interest that it has been done. She says nothing, doesn’t strike out, only looking at him, head low and eyes half-lit, like a displeased cat. She bands an ear on him as he speaks his name, his home. His common sense of the whole matter certainly impresses her, but she lets none of that notion cross her face. Instead she sighs and looks to Orion, then Crota, and back to Ruan, “City.” She nods, cordial but not necessarily quaint and full of friendliness. “I was away when the mountain was raised, but I’ve heard stories. Seen some of the aftermath, but I’ve not travelled far,” She looks to Crota, “The Kingdoms are dead, yes?” And now to Ruan her golden eyes settle, “Is there any militia, governments, groups? If it is a simple herd you’re offering,” She finds each one again and loops back to settle on the purple-spotted stallion. “I’ll pass.” She breathes between words. “But I’m open to other sorts of opportunities.”

in the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;

C i t y

When the big stallion spoke she listened carefully. She heard him, each word he picked is a well-chosen one. She nods to him, but leaves the air between them silent and slides her bright saffron eyes to the small spotted mare. A smirk cracks at one side of her gray lips when she jokes, nothing too joyous but she’s humored somewhere in that dusty old body of hers. She’s snagged by this mare, though she’s not entirely sure why. She lets her go on and holds a steady stare onto the speckled woman. Nothing is said when she speaks of the dead kingdoms, the blood-teared woman only twitches an ear toward the draft and back to Crota.

When she talks of not being what the others have built City thinks nothing of it. She doesn’t note weakness or even a second guess of the potential, but the next few sentences cut the throat of optimism with brutality. “become a land of Guardians and protectors” … The rest blurred, slithered, melted together. City’s tail snapped back and forth as if bugs were bothering her in this chilly late season. She waits for the mare to finish, but again leaves the air between them silent and moves her oily yellow eyes to Ruan, fresh blood brimming at the bottoms. He remains silent, it appears.

She finds Crota again. “I am not a protector of anything.” The fetus in her squirms and she realizes she’s just lied. “I cannot carry the weak, nor would I try, though I commend you for the effort Crota.” Her voice isn’t laced with venom, or judgement, just truth. “We will see one another again, until then, good luck with it all.” She turns away without anything more, spinning on a heel to propel into a smooth run. “I’ll meet you in Nerine, stallion.” Her feet strike rhythmically and with long reaching strides that gauge ruthlessly at the soil. She disappears into the shadows and the tree’s enveloping passages, she’s headed for the coast.

in the bleak midwinter, frosty wind made moan,
earth stood hard as iron, water like a stone;